By and Down
by giadysik
Summary: The Shield has been cracking apart for months, and things come to a head at Elimination Chamber, when Dean disappears in the middle of the match. But with the Wyatt Family and William Regal around, things aren't always what they seem. AU...ish. Slash. [Ambregal, Ambrolleigns (mostly Rolleigns), others.]
1. Chapter 1

AU: I've been kicking this around since Elimination Chamber and only just now got around to writing it. This will jump around a fair bit during this set up chapter, but it'll settle down as we get cracking. Slash and violence and all the usual warnings apply. Enjoy.

**By and Down**  
I. _Elimination Chamber_

"Poor lost little lamb," Bray Wyatt whispered to the limp man in his arms.

Where it had been the two of them surrounded by thousand and thousands of roaring voices, they'd not battled their way into a secluded dark corner of the arena, well off the main track and nowhere near anyone.

Dean Ambrose blinked blearily up at him.

Wyatt smiled gently at him and said, "Your boys are holding you back, child. Acting like _you're_ the problem. Telling you what you can and can't do. Not letting you let out all that anger you got in you. They tell you it's 'cuz they love you - oh, I know all about the things you men do behind closed doors - but it's 'cuz they're _afraid_. They beat you down and keep you on that leash they call love 'cuz they don't want to admit they're afraid you're going to get out and show them up - outshine them."

"Fuck you," Ambrose muttered, and, to Wyatt's unending amusement, he tried to escape. Weakly, though, hands flailing and punches that fell wide of the mark. The blow he'd taken to the back of the head left him as uncoordinated as a newborn foal. "_Fuck you_."

Wyatt kissed his forehead. "We'll talk later, little lamb. I've got to get to my boys."

And with that, he _twisted_.

Sister Abigail onto a concrete floor in a hidden corner of the arena.

There was a brisk, flat _smack_ as Ambrose hit the ground full-force, and then the man who couldn't stand still to save his life lay unmoving at Bray Wyatt's feet.

This, Wyatt thought, chuckling softly as he turned to make his way back to the fight, was going to be fun.

xXx

As the Wyatts circled around Seth like buzzards circling carion, he looked around desperately for an escape.

For _help_.

Roman was crumpled like a wadded paper towel in the ring, clutching his ribs and groaning.

Dean was - where?

He'd disappeared into the crowd with Wyatt, last Seth saw.

Here was Wyatt, but where the fuck was Ambrose?

The Wyatts closed in, and Seth fought them off best he could, but there were three of them and one of him - an irony not lost on him, even as he took a foot to the gut and someone grabbed his hair and rammed into the ring apron - and as Harper and Rowan picked him up to slam him down him onto the Spanish announce table, Seth braced himself.

No help was coming, and oh _fuck_, this was going to hurt.

He flew.

Crashed down.

_Blackout_.

xXx

Roman didn't have time to look for help once Seth went down.

Three on one.

Fight of his life, and for one shining, desperate moment, he thought he had it.

Superman flying high, throwing punches with a kind of adrenaline-fueled desperation that made it feel like the whole world was shaking when he landed.

The crowd roared its support. He could feel them with him, leaning forward in their collective seats as they urged him on.

_Ro-man Reigns!_

But Superman met Kryptonite in the form of a big boot driving all the air out of his lungs again, and this time, he didn't have the strength left in him to break out of Wyatt's grasp.

Hot wash of rank breath on his face, and then everything was a blur as he felt himself smashed onto the canvas face-first.

This time the roaring in his ears was only blood.

And everything went gray.

xXx

On the way up the ramp, Bray Wyatt turned to his victorious boys and said, quietly, "Go and grab Ambrose's things outta their locker room. Quickly now, and make sure no one sees you. Take 'em to the truck."

Harper eyed him curiously. "We takin' him with us after all?"

Wyatt shook his head. "Just his things. You'll see. Now you boys run along. I'm going to finish dealing with him. I'll meet you back at the trainer's area when I'm done."

xXx

Because they still worked for the Authority, the Shield boys had their own private locker room down the same private hall where Orton and company had theirs.

No one was around.

For Luke Harper and Erick Rowan, getting into the Shield's locker room unseen was didn't require anything more than opening a door and stepping inside.

xXx

Getting out was another story, but they didn't see the man watching them carry Ambrose's things away.

xXx

William Regal had been on his way up to rub a little salt on the wound.

Like everyone else these past months, he'd been watching the Shield's slow implosion with baited breath.

Roman Reigns poised to break out, Seth Rollins right behind him, and Dean Ambrose the jealous weak link so far behind and beneath the other two it was utterly laughable.

Oh, he supposed going to up to mock Ambrose while he was down was petty, but even two years later, Regal _still _checked the corners to make sure that rotten bastard wasn't skulking about.

His equilibrium had never been the same since, either; that blow to the ear and subsequent damage made him get dizzy just standing up too fast.

Nearly ended his career.

He could never resist needling the man for his failures - of which, lately, it seemed there was nothing but.

But when he saw the two strapping Wyatt lads - Harper and Rowan - skulking away from the locker room the Authority had given the Shield with what looked like Ambrose's luggage (Regal thought he recognized the camouflaged backpack and the black case Ambrosed used to carry his title), he made a quick detour around a corner to keep from being seen.

Once they were gone, he made his way up to the Shield's locker room, curiosity overriding his better judgment.

_What on Earth were they doing in there?_

On finding the room empty other than Reigns' and Rollins' things, Regal hurried off to track where Harper and Rowan were headed.

He kept his distance and watched from a shadow-tucked corner as the pair left the building.

Outside, he watched from behind a big rubbish bin as they carried the suitcase and backpack to the battered old truck they drove venue to venue.

He nipped over once they went back inside and peered into one of the dirty rear windows.

Nothing in there but luggage scattered carelessly across the back seat.

He couldn't distinguish Ambrose's things from the mess.

Nor was there any sign of Ambrose himself.

Interesting, that.

xXx

Roman wasn't injured, but the trainers wanted to check Seth out once they'd pulled him out of the table wreckage and got him into the back.

Seth told a worried-looking Roman to go find out where the hell Ambrose went.

After that, he closed his eyes against the sterile white light overhead and laid back to let the docs do their thing.

Thirty minutes later, Roman came back into the trainers' area still in his sweat-soaked ring gear and frowning deep enough to cut lines across his forehead.

"His stuff's gone," he said, pushing his hair back off his face. "I checked around, even went outside and looked in Wyatt's truck, and I didn't see anything. Nothing in our car. I tried calling him, too, but no answer. Nobody saw him leave, but nobody's seen him around."

Seth, trying to hold still so the docs could finish stitching up a nasty cut on his back, frowned. "So, what are we thinking? He just bailed on us?"

"I don't know. I hope not, but, man, I hope nothing happened. I'll keep looking."

"Yeah, call him again. Shoot him a text or something."

"Oh, look," a mocking voice drawled from the doorway behind them, "the bits and pieces of the Shield. All the kings horses and all the kings men, tryin' to patch 'em back together again."

Roman tensed.

"Hey!" one of the docs snapped. "Get the hell out of here, Wyatt. Take your goons with you."

Seth looked around him at Wyatt, slouched insolently against the doorframe, hat low over his eyes, slanted grin visible even through the layers of beard.

Behind him, Harper and Rowan stood like a couple of ugly mongrel watchdogs, Rowan in his battered sheep's mask and Harper bug-eyed and smug.

"_Go_," the doc snapped again, a restraining hand on the back of Seth's shoulder to keep him from moving.

Wyatt said, "Oh, now, Doctor, there's no need for that. We're not here to cause a fuss. We only wanted to congratulate these boys on a battle hard-fought." He made a show of looking around. "Seems you're missing one, though."

Roman took a step forward, puffed-chested and glaring daggers. "What did you do with him, Wyatt?"

"Why, I showed him Sister Abigail's true face," Wyatt said, "and it shook him to his very core. He ran like the scared little boy we all know he really is. I let him go."

Harper's grin revealed a mouthful of crooked teeth. "Turns out your boy's blood runs piss yellow."

Another step forward, and Roman grabbed hold of Wyatt's flowered shirt and used to slam Wyatt back against the doorframe. Roman's nostrils were flaring like a charging bull's. "You got exactly five seconds to tell me what you did with him."

Rowan and Harper tried to move in, but Wyatt held up a hand. "I already told you. He ran off. Seemed to be in an awful hurry to get up to your locker room. White as sheet, he was, and runnin' like very hounds of hell were nippin' at his heels. She frightened him into revealing his true colors."

"Piss yellow," Harper said again.

Roman slammed Wyatt back. "Bullshit."

"Believe," Wyatt said, pushing Roman's hands away, "or don't. We just came to wish y'all a good night." He looked around at Seth, smiled again, and said, "I'm sure we'll be doin' this again real soon. 'Til then…"

With that, he turned to lead Harper and Rowan away.

Roman flicked his hair back again and turned. "What the hell was _that_?"

Seth lowered his head back onto his forearms as the docs continued their work. "No idea, man."

xXx

They were up in their private little locker room - not much bigger than a coat closet, really, but it did have a shower, at least - getting changed and trying to figure out what the fuck they were going to do when their phones both buzzed.

Roman, his shirt still off, got to his first. "It's Dean," he said, squinting down at his screen. "Sent a text."

Seth tugged his shirt on and snatched up his phone off his bag.

_I had to leave_, Dean's text read. _Don't want to talk. On my wayto GB. See you at the arena tomorrow._

Relieved and annoyed all at once, Seth flipped his hair out of his face and tapped out, _Not coming to the hotel?_

_No_, came the reply. _Want to be alone. You guys ok?_

_No. I went thru a table n Roman got pinned. U left us hanging asshole._

It was a long time before Dean answered. _Sorry_. _Had to leave. Wyatt fucked with my head bad_.

"The fuck does _that_ mean?" Roman asked. He'd stood up so he could read over Seth's shoulder.

Sounded about as pissed off as Seth suddenly felt.

"I don't know, man," he said. The phone made furious little clicks as he typed. _Don't care_. _We needed u and u weren't there. WTF?_

_Talk tomorrow_, Dean finally texted back.

_You fucking better_.

This time there was no answer.

xXx

Ten miles up the road from the arena where they'd won their war, Bray Wyatt laughed to himself as he tossed Ambrose's cell phone back into the backpack he'd pulled it out of.

That had been more fun than he'd expected, fooling those two.

Easier than he expected, too.

Harper, wedged behind the wheel as always, glanced over. "Where _did_ you leave him?"

"Oh, somewhere he'll be found," Wyatt said vaguely. "Not by them, of course, but he'll be found. Eventually." He settled back in his seat to watch the road unfold itself ahead of them. He swore it was Abigail herself, holding open her hand to guide the way. "We'll take Rollins next, and Reigns last. I'll leave it to you boys to decide which of you gets which."

"You don't want them?"

"They're all yours."

He'd had his fill tonight; there was no need to be greedy.

Content, and with Abigail singing sweetly to him, he looked out at the night once more.

xXx

Furious, Seth flung his phone into his bag. "That fucking asshole really did it. He fucking _walked out_ on us in the middle of a match." He watched Roman walk around and hunker down in front of him so they were eye level. "I don't believe this."

"The way Wyatt seems to be able to get to him, is it really that surprising?" Roman's big hands hands found their way to Seth's knees. "Thought we had all that 'weak link' crap squashed after Punk left, but that errand boy shit - man, you knew that was gonna stick. Not that _that's_ any excuse."

"No, but still," Seth said. "He better have a better fucking reason than that."

"Yeah," Roman said. "You don't abandon your team in the middle of a fight no matter what."

"Especially when it's _us." _Seth rolled his neck gingerly and winced. "_Fucking_ Wyatts."

"He didn't have to listen to them."

"I know."

"He _walked_, man."

"I know."

The problem ran deeper than just Dean's habit of letting people like Bray Wyatt get into his head, though, and they both knew it.

Those damn cracks in the Shield's foundation were getting harder and harder to ignore.

But that didn't mean they couldn't try.

Impulsively, surprising even himself, Seth lunged forward, took hold of Roman's bare shoulders, and dragged him in for a hard, long kiss.

He was fucking sore, fucking pissed off, and just not in the mood for anything that required thought.

Not now.

He'd been trying for _months_ to keep this shit together, but every time it seemed like they had one crack patched, another one opened up wide, and he was fucking _tired_ of all of it.

So he kissed Roman like it was the last fucking time they'd ever have a chance to, one hand tangling in Roman's shower-damp hair and the other sliding down Roman's chest, tongues and lips sliding together fast and furious, needing and fucking desperate and not giving a _fuck_ if somebody walked in.

By this point, only a blind and deaf man wouldn't have known they were fucking.

When Seth pulled back, gasping, Roman smiled and turned slightly dazed eyes on him. "What was _that_ for?"

"We needed it," Seth said, wiping his mouth. He stood up. "I don't want to drive tonight. Let's get just get a hotel and stay here. I don't want to deal with any of this shit tonight - Ambrose, the Wyatts, the match, any of it. I just don't."

Roman climbed to his feet "So don't, then. We can get a room. I got no problem with that. Anything else you need? Because, uh, just so happens I'm in a pretty damn giving mood right now."

"A back massage, you to fuck me 'til I can't remember my name, and a good night's sleep."

"Long as you remember my name, baby."

"Always."

"Then I think I can help you with a couple of those."

Seth narrowed eyes at him. "What about you? You need anything?"

"Besides you?" Roman shrugged and grabbed his shirt. "Nah. I think I'm good."

"Fucking _sap_," Seth said, but for the first time in two hours, he found a smile.

Not much, but it was a start.

xXx

It didn't even occur to Regal to let Reigns and Rollins know that the Wyatts had Ambrose's luggage.

Or perhaps he just didn't _want_ to - the old villain in him too keen to watch this whole thing explode into disaster to bother with all that.

That, and he got a bit lost down in the infernal maze that was the arena's criss-crossing hallways as he tried to find Ambrose himself. Not worth the bother of trying to find his way back out just to go find them because he'd never find his way back down where he was.

He'd overheard - eavesdropped on - Wyatt's conversation with Rollins and Reigns about Ambrose running, and had slipped off to watch for the Wyatts to leave.

The hairy trio had left alone.

Instinct told Regal Ambrose was still in the building somewhere.

As he'd gone down to look, Regal supposed he probably _should_ let someone know, but there was always a chance that he was wrong or that it would get back to the Wyatts that he'd been eavesdropping on them - neither of which was a particularly appealing prospect.

And, really, he _wanted_ to be the one to find Ambrose.

If only so he could laugh at the foolish boy for letting himself be so easily manipulated.

Again.

Bit disappointing that, he mused as he turned down one narrow, out-of-the-way hallway.

Bloody boy hadn't learned a thing about how to guard himself against people trying to pluck his strings.

Regal rounded another corner, and pulled to a sudden, startled stop.

There was Ambrose, a huddled figure down in a dark corner.

He was on his knees, hands cuffed together behind him and the cuffs themselves attached to the wall somehow, what looked like half a roll of black trainer's tape over his mouth, his head down and his shaggy hair a wild mess.

There was a small silver chain that had two keys on it hung around his neck, too.

The part that had Regal's mouth twitching was the fact that Ambrose was almost completely naked.

He had his shirt on and nothing else.

The rest had been tossed into a pile beside him.

He honestly looked like someone who'd had a nasty rib played on him, and Regal finally lost the war against the laughter that wanted to bubble out. "Well, well, well," he said, chuckling as he made his way down the hall, "what on Earth have you got yourself into now?"

No answer, of course, not that Regal expected anyway, but it did strike him as a bit odd how Ambrose didn't even look a _fuck you_ his way.

There were twin hard spots of color in Ambrose's cheeks, dark and angry red.

Regal stopped laughing all at once: faint smell of sex in the air, underpinned by something vaguely metallic.

Blood.

A thin trail of it down the back of Ambrose's leg.

There was also a damp white stain on the wrinkled back of Ambrose's black shirt.

Suddenly there was nothing in Regal but a cold, swooping anger.

He crouched down in front of Ambrose, took the man's unshaven, overheated face between two hands, and turned it up to force eye contact.

Bright blue eyes full of shame and anger looked back at him.

Two very old, familiar acquaintances of Regal's, shame and anger, and he sighed. Rolled the ball of his thumb just once over Ambrose's cheekbone.

"What _have_ you gotten yourself into, lad?"

Once again, nothing.

Regal reached for the tape and got to work letting Ambrose loose.

xXx

A/N: Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to all those who read and also those who reviewed the first chapter. Not a whole lot of plot movement in this chapter - mostly just character stuff. I should have mentioned this last chapter, but I'll give the warning here: this story goes to some dark places and touches on subjects some of you mind find uncomfortable and/or disturbing. Proceed at your own risk.

**By and Down**  
II. Where We Forget

_Bright summer morning, deep in the heart of a Florida swamp: sun shining bright through the trees, birds chattering everywhere and bugs buzzing and critters crawling everywhere._

"_This little light of mine," Abigail sang in her cheerful little voice, "I'm gonna let it shine! This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine!_" _The hand holding Bray's squeezed and big blue eyes pleaded with him. "C'mon, Bray! Sing with me."_

"_No, Ab-"_

"_Braaaay! Please?"_

_He swatted at a big, lumbering wasp and said, "Fine. Just not that. It's a baby song."_

_Abigail was only seven, so she could sing baby songs still, but Bray was nine and nine was too old._

_His little sister was a bossy pain in his butt sometimes, but she was also his best friend in the whole world. Unlike the other boys and girls back at the compound, who were mean and quiet and didn't like to play, Abigail was always singing and laughing and dragging Bray off into the swamp on "''venchers"_.

_Like now. She had him firmly by the hand and was leading him off on a 'vencher down one of her favorite little wooded trails, bare feet leaving tiny prints in the dirt and the bottom of her white dress getting dusty. Her hair, dark like Bray's, had come out of its little pigtails, too, but she was grinning a big gap-toothed grin as she started singing again: "He's got the whole world in his hands, he's got the whole world…"_

"_...in his hands," Bray sang with her. He liked that one._

_Their daddy was probably going to tan Bray's hide for this - he didn't like it when Abigail ran off on "venchers" - but right now, Bray didn't care._

_If Abigail wanted to off vencherin' to the fishing hole and try to catch frogs, that's just what they'd do._

_He'd rather be doing this than stay in the boring old compound anyday._

"_He's got the whole world in his hands."_

xXx

"Turn your phone off," Roman said as he followed Seth into the hotel room.

It was a cheap room, but clean, and the bed looked plenty big enough for the two of them.

Roman pulled his phone out and, holding it up so Seth could see, powered it off. Then he tossed it onto the nightstand. "No distractions."

"Fuckin' right," Seth said, doing likewise. "Make me forget about this stupid night."

Big arms wrapped him up. "You got it, baby."

xXx

It wasn't how Regal intended to spend his night, ferrying a furious-silent Dean Ambrose to Green Bay, but that was indeed what the night had in store for him.

Once he'd taken in and processed exactly what Wyatt had done to Ambrose, Regal had honestly meant to see to it the man made it back to his teammates.

Even Regal had his limits.

For his part, Ambrose had hardly acknowledged it; once Regal freed him, he'd merely massaged his wrists and stretched his shoulders before gathering his clothing. He'd silently redressed himself and then had turned to ask Regal, in tones of deadly quiet anger, if he'd seen Reigns and Rollins.

As he'd answered that he had, Regal tried not to stare at the line of angry red marks that trailed up the sides and front of Ambrose's neck - marks from Wyatt, no doubt, and up high enough nothing short of a scarf would cover them completely.

They looked like lovebites.

Regal found that utterly infuriating.

Before they'd gone up to try to find Reigns and Rollins, Regal had suggested Ambrose might want to stop by a men's room to clean the mess off the back of his shirt.

Ambrose, his mouth twisting like he'd bitten something sour, had stripped the thing off entirely and had thrown it the first rubbish bin they passed on the way back.

There was a pair of bloody bite marks on the back of his shoulder, and two more on his sides, and Regal tried not to stare at those either.

Tried not to let himself imagine carving bite-shaped pieces out of Wyatt's hide.

_Why do you even care?_

He dumped the wad of tape he'd pulled off of Ambrose's mouth into the bin, too, but, after a moment's hesitation, pocketed the handcuffs and keys.

One never knew when such things would come in handy.

Ambrose had given him a long look at that, but hadn't said a word.

They hadn't found Reigns or Rollins, though; the locker room, in fact, now stood deserted, all of Reigns' and Rollins' things gone.

The car was gone as well, and Regal frowned at that:

_Surely_ Reigns and Rollins hadn't believed Wyatt's claim that Ambrose left.

Something like panic in the jerky way Ambrose shook his hair off his face. "Why would they just leave?" he'd asked. "Why didn't they…?" And then, as if suddenly realizing just who he was asking, he'd turned and given Regal another long look. "The fuck were you even doing down there in the first place? How did you even find me?"

"I wasn't actually looking for you," Regal'd answered, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I got lost wandering 'round that infernal maze down there. Happened to hear something."

It wasn't a great lie, but Ambrose just grunted and turned to stare out at the near-empty carpark again, fingernails dragging frantically across his chest and shoulder. "I don't even have my fucking _phone_. What if the Wyatts got to 'em? Huh? What if they ran 'em off?"

Regal had just shaken his head and passed his own phone over. "They were fine when I saw them, and I did see the Wyatts leaving. But here."

Ambrose had eyed the phone like it was a snake, but took it.

He'd handed the phone back after no more than a minute. "Straight to fuckin' voicemail, both of 'em."

They'd given in a few minutes, Ambrose packing back and forth like a caged animal and Regal heading over to his own rental to dig out a spare shirt.

In the end, Regal had suggested pressing on to Green Bay, and Ambrose had reluctantly agreed.

Wasn't a thing to be done sitting around Minneapolis, especially with Reigns and Rollins not answering their phones, and they both knew it.

Now, two hours into a nearly five-hour drive, Regal ventured a look over. Ambrose was slouched down in the passenger seat, and glaring out the window, but he flicked an annoyed look Regal's way. "Would you quit that? Fuck. I'm fine."

"Are you?" Regal asked.

There was a long pause, and then Ambrose said, "It's just another way of beating somebody up. Trying to knock 'em down. That's all it ever fucking is. Kicking a guy when he's down. Wasn't the first time, anyway." He stopped himself, as if suddenly realizing what he'd just said. "I'm _fine_."

Regal couldn't help another, sharper look. He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his fingers ached. "Wyatt's gotten to you before?"

"Not Wyatt," Ambrose said tightly. "Just - look, forget I said anything, and you better not fucking breathe a word to anybody - not even Seth and Roman. Assuming we even fucking find them. What if they're not at the hotel?"

"Then I suppose you come to the arena with me in the morning and we wait for the Wyatts."

A wash of headlights across Ambrose's face illuminated how tired he looked, the rage still smoldering low in his eyes. His palm hissed over stubble-rough cheeks. "We, huh? What, you mad Wyatt got me before you did?"

Regal frowned. "What?"

"What the fuck do _you_ care what happened?" Twist in Ambrose's voice like a rusted barbedwire snarl. "I told you a long time ago, you could have it. You're the one who said no. So what difference does it make to you if Wyatt got me? You didn't want it."

_You didn't want it_, Ambrose said.

_You didn't want me, _Regal heard. He checked a sigh. "This hardly the time for that discussion, although, no, it has nothing to do with that - at all. What it comes down to is that I find it utterly reprehensible, him doing this sort of thing to you or anyone else. He needs to be stopped."

"Right, 'cuz you doing the hero thing and stopping Big, Bad Wyatt, that's totally you."

Regal again chose not to rise to the bait.

After a pause, Ambrose slumped down in his seat. "Two fucking years you pretend I don't exist, and the one fucking night I'd rather cut my nuts off than see you, there you fuckin' are. And Roman and Seth nowhere to be found. Huh. What a coincidence."

"I had nothing to do with that, either," Regal said, forcing himself to loosen the death grip he'd had on the wheel. "I know you've had a bad night, but there's no point in trying to cast me as the villain of the piece. I could have left you down there for someone less discreet to find; I chose not to. I didn't have to offer you a lift; I chose to. When we find your mates, if you decide you don't want me to help you, I'll leave you to fight your monsters. Really that simple."

"Simple."

He didn't sound like he believed it, either.

"As simple as it gets for men like us," Regal said anyway.

"...yeah." Ambrose glanced over. "Ain't like 'em to have their phones off."

"You…" _really care for them, don't you_? But that was a silly question. Clearly he did. The more interesting question, Regal mused as he fished his phone out of his breast pocket and silently passed it over, was how much _they_ cared for _him_.

He hadn't thought they'd believed Wyatt, but he hadn't seen sign one of them once he'd left the trainer's area to go watch the Wyatts leave. They certainly hadn't come down to look, and, coupled with them still not answering their phones, that _did_ strike him as a bit odd.

"Hang onto it," Regal said when Ambrose tried to give him the phone back. "In case they call."

Ambrose tapped it against his knee. Turned his head so he was staring out the passenger window once more. Sighed gustily, the sound like that of air rushing out of a deflating tire. "Thanks."

"Sure."

Silence fell again, but Regal found himself breathing just a little easier into it.

xXx

"_-brothers and sisters in his hands," they sang._

_Abigail stopped all at once, though, just froze all at once in the middle of the narrow dirt trail, little face turned toward the fishing hole._

_Bray, still holding her hand, stopped beside her, thinking she was about to light off on the start of whatever vencher she had in mind._

_But she whispered, "He's hurting him, Bray."_

"_Huh?"_

_Then he heard it: faintly, coming from just beyond the stand of trees she was staring at, someone was crying. Saying, "It hurts. It hurts. No more. Please, no more."_

_And someone else said, "Shut up, boy. Just shut that mouth up right now."_

_Abigail let go of Bray's hand and ran off toward the fishing hole, quick as a hiccup, leaving Bray to lumber after her._

"_Abigail, wait," he called, but she raced ahead of him, dark hair streaming out behind her, feet kicking up dust._

_He followed her into the dark between a couple of huge old trees, and then out into the reedy area that marked the edge of the fishing hole._

_They came to the muddy bank, and Bray heard Abigail say, "Daddy?" real soft-like._

_Fear grabbing Bray like a rabid dog and shaking him, he crept up to Abigail's side._

_A long time ago, somebody had brought some old cut-down stumps down to use for sitting. It was short ways up the bank from where Abigail and Bray now stood._

_Daddy, a huge man with a dark beard down to his chest and hair the same dark color as Abigail's, was over at the stumps with one of the Harper boys - Matt, the oldest. He was fifteen and mean and almost as big as Daddy, but you wouldn't have known it right then because Matt was bent down over one of the big stumps facing Bray and Abigail's way and crying like a baby._

_As much as Bray liked to see Matt get some back after all the times Matt pushed Bray around, he was still afraid: Daddy had his big, old leather belt in hand and brought it down smart across Matt's shoulders two or three times. The snap it made echoed and rolled off the muddy water like something out of one of Bray's many nightmares._

_And then Daddy kind of _pushed _Matt against the stump a few times, and whatever he was doing made Matt holler again._

_Daddy brought the belt down. "Shut the hell up, boy. You got this comin' to you. Teach you to steal from this family."_

"_Daddy!" Abigail yelled. "Daddy, stop!"_

_She tore off toward him, a fearless, tiny thing in a dirty white dress, feet slapping the mud._

_Daddy's head snapped up._

_Bray took one look at him and ran after her._

xXx

Regal swam awake with the distinct feeling he hadn't been asleep long.

Rather annoying, that, considering how long it took him to fall asleep in the first place.

No sign of Reigns or Rollins at the hotel Ambrose said the trio had arranged to stay - they'd never checked in and their car wasn't in the carpark - and Ambrose had become quite agitated at that.

He had, surprisingly, turned down Regal's offer to get them separate rooms.

After he'd had himself a long shower, he'd emerged wearing nothing but a towel wrapped over his underpants, and had, for a time, proceeded to pace about the darkened room while Regal lay quietly on his own bed, watching.

Probably would have paced the damned sun up if Regal hadn't gotten up and wordlessly shoved him toward the empty second bed.

It was still dark outside now and the only light in the room came from the weak nightlight. Still, that was enough for Regal to see the second bed was once again empty, this time having been divested of its duvet cover.

Which was wrapped around Ambrose.

Who'd migrated over to Regal's bed at some point, and now lay curled up beside him, cocooned in his blanket so Regal couldn't see anything of him except the shaggy top of his head and the hand resting atop Regal's blanket-covered side.

He was by no means a small man, but right then he reminded Regal irresistibly of a small child who'd had a bad dream and had crawled into bed with a parent - and not at all of the walking hurricane who'd completely managed to upend Regal's life and wreck his career all those years ago.

The bed felt cramped and too warm with the pair of them in it, but as Regal reached down to absently card fingers through the fluffed-up mess that was Ambrose's hair, he decided it wasn't worth the fuss.

Ambrose sighed and shifted just a bit closer.

_Just this once_.

xXx

Seth carefully untangled himself from a snarl of blankets and Roman's sleepy hold sometime after six.

Wincing, he made his way over to grab his toothbrush and some gym clothes.

After he dressed, pulled his hair back, and scrubbed the grime off his teeth, he picked his phone up and turned it on.

By that point, Roman had stirred and now blinked sleepily at Seth from his nest of blankets. "Goin to work out?"

Seth, frowning down at his phone screen, nodded. "Yeah. Who the hell is 608-555-9457?"

"Huh?"

"I got like half a dozen calls from that number last night and this morning."

"I dunno," Roman said, scrubbing a hand over his face. He sat up and pulled his sleep-rumpled hair back off his face. "They leave a message?"

"Huh-uh."

"Mm. Hey, throw me mine."

As he tapped his redial button, Seth reached behind him for Roman's phone and tossed it onto the bed.

The call clicked straight to one of those automated voicemail message thingies that only told him the phone number. He hung up without leaving a message.

"Yeah, hey, I got calls from the same number," Roman said suddenly.

"Well, I just called it, and got voicemail. No name. Just the auto-greeting deal. Whatever." Seth pocketed his phone and bent down to reach for his shoes. "I guess if it was important, they would've left a message. I'm gonna head out."

There was a CrossFit box not all that far from here and this was always the best time of day.

Roman yawned and made his way out of the bed, padding over to wrap Seth up again in a sleepy-warm hug. "Have fun with that," he rumbled. "I'm gonna hit the gym downstairs like a not-crazy person."

Seth scraped his beard along the top of Roman's shoulder. Let his arms drift around Roman's broad back.

"So last night was good, huh?" Roman said then, voice quiet against the shell Seth's ear. "Just us. I liked that. A lot." He pulled back to catch Seth's eye. "Something to think about going forward, huh? What if it was just us two?"

"Rome-"

"Just _think_ about it. Because it was just you and me last night, and I didn't feel like we were missing a thing. That felt _right_ - like it was supposed to be. I'm not saying it's bad the other way, but last night was the most relaxed I've seen you in months. What does that tell you?"

_We're just avoiding our problem._

Seth shook his head. "Dude…"

"Just think about it, all right? You know I'm crazy about you, and how good we are together. Now go. Work out."

With that, Roman disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Seth to frown after him.

xXx

When Regal awoke for good later that morning, he still wasn't alone in his bed.

It was still early enough he didn't have to be up quite yet, so after a quick trip to the toilet, he slid back under the covers and stretched out on his back, careful not to disturb Ambrose, who was, to all appearances, still asleep.

He was lying on his stomach now, eyes closed with his chin on his folded forearms, and the blanket he'd wrapped himself in now down around his waist - low enough Regal could see he was naked under it.

The bite marks on the backs of his shoulder looked fairly nasty, the edges puffy and red, and Regal made a mental note to suggest antibiotic cream for them - God only knew what diseases Wyatt had picked up down in the swamp or wherever the bloody hell he came from.

Yes, he mused, a rusty serrated knife drawn slow and deep enough to nick the bone,

That would be fitting for what Wyatt had done to the-

(-_my_-)

-boy.

Regal blinked and shook the thought away.

_Don't_.

What he needed to do - _all_ he needed to do - was see Ambrose safely to his team, and leave it at that.

Why he'd even thought it was a good idea to go and rub sale on the wound in the first place…

He should have just left it closed and moved on as Ambrose clearly had - even if he was doing a poor job of it.

But perhaps that was the rub.

An absent hand stole out, made its way to the top of Ambrose's head again, and settled there, fingers carding lightly through the shaggy - albeit thinning - mop.

Where Regal had expected Ambrose go it alone and bulldoze his way through the WWE's ranks the way he had FCW's, the boy had instead aligned himself with two admittedly talented and handsome young men, and had let himself be marginalized - pushed aside and overshadowed, his chaotic nature restrained, his frustration and runaway ego manifesting itself increasingly wrong ways.

_This_ - the man who'd left Regal a dizzy heap in the middle of the ring all of two years ago - was the supposed weak link in the Shield's chain, a self-defeating madman who these days more resembled a mindless rabid dog than the wily and gleefully chaotic demon he'd been once upon a time.

_What happened to you_?

Ambrose's eyes - those odd, mercurial things - opened and flicked up, too bright and alert for him to have actually been asleep.

Regal withdrew his hand.

For a while, they simply watched one another, calm and quiet and still.

_Expectant_.

The breathless moments before a storm.

Eventually, Ambrose shifted to his side again, breaking eye contact as he reached over to skim the flat of his hand across the blanket covering Regal's chest, along his stomach, and down-

"No," Regal said quietly, pushing the hand away.

Not for the first time.

"I want you to."

The words were sleep-rough, artless and brash, much like Ambrose himself, and although he wasn't terribly charmed by it, Regal couldn't deny the temptation was there. It always was. The man had filled out quite nicely over the past two years, new muscle rounding out areas that had once been flat and uninteresting.

Areas now visible thanks to a low-slung blanket.

_Don't._

"After what Wyatt did to you last night?"

Cruelty in the name of kindless was a language he spoke probably better than anyone.

Ambrose looked up again, all brilliant blue eyes and raised eyebrows, hair flying every which way, and in desperate need of a shave. Still bloody attractive, though. And he said, "He just beat me up, that's all. In a different way. Like I said, that's all it ever is. Doesn't even have anything to do with this. I just want you to. One time. You want it - I know you do, so don't even act like you don't - and I want it. We both do and you fucking know it. So fucking do it."

Regal blinked at that, hand sliding back through his own hair. "It won't fix anything."

"You don't _fix_ getting beat up - no matter how it happens. You just heal up and move on. One time. However you want. I won't ask again after that."

"Perhaps I'm missing something, but I fail to see how letting me give you a poke up the backside will help you move on. Finding your mates, on the other hand, _would_ help. We can go and wait at the arena." He pushed his blanket aside and climbed to his feet before his hands or body could do anything to betray him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and have a shower. Give your mates another ring."

Ambrose rolled onto his back and thumped his head back onto the mattress, teeth grit. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he muttered, "go take your fucking shower. Have fun jerking off."

Regal paused in his quest for a fresh change of clothes. "You'll thank me for this later, you know."

"If you think that, then you don't know me half as well as you think you do." He lifted his head. "Why's it so fucking hard for you to ever give me something I want? Help me forget everything for a while. That's all I want."

"Because the things you want from me aren't good for you," Regal said quietly as he turned away. "Ring your mates, lad."

He carried his whole suitcase into the bathroom and shut the door, locking it behind him and sagging back against it. The suitcase thumped to the floor, and he covered his face with a hand, sighing.

How easy it would have been.

But how bloody unfair.

The horrible mental image of Ambrose handcuffed half-naked to the floor like some animal caught in a trap was still quite fresh in Regal's mind's eye, and for all the boy's brave words about healing up and moving on, he was walking wounded, and apt to be for some time.

Best to hand him off to his mates and content himself with a measure of quiet revenge against the Wyatts.

Keep the door closed, leave the past where it was, try to forget it and move on.

But as he climbed into the shower and stood under the spray, he couldn't quite help taking hold of himself, closing his eyes, and masturbating while fantasies of everything he - still - wanted to do to and with Ambrose played out in his head.

xXx

"_Abigail!" Bray hollered at his sister. "Abigail, wait!"_

_But she ran, quick as lightning, across the muddy bank and over to where Daddy and Matt were._

_Daddy stumbled back, pulling his pants up - _why were they down in the first place? _- and snapping, "You stay back, little girl. Mind your daddy now."_

_Matt kept on bawling like a baby. Daddy grabbed him rough by the back of his neck and one arm and threw him down into the mud. "Quit your bellyachin'. Pull your damn pants up."_

_He raised the belt again and brought it down. Snapped sharp like a gunshot. Bray jumped. He was so scared that he wanted to turn and run away, but Abigail hadn't stopped running._

_She ran up to where Daddy was getting ready to take another swing. "Stop it, Daddy!"_

_Daddy brought the belt down hard._

_It made a different sound this time, more a dull _thump _than a sharp snap, but Abigail suddenly dropped like a stone, shrieking in pain._

_Bray forgot all about being scared and just got mad._

_Daddy hunkered over her, belt dangling from his hand. "Dammit, girl, I told you-"_

_He didn't have a chance to finish what he was saying, because Bray barreled into him. He was big enough for his age that he sent Daddy tumbling backward into the mud, just like Daddy had tossed Matt down there._

_As Daddy tumbled, Bray caught a strong whiff of whatever Daddy had been drinking this morning - whiskey or beer, Bray never knew which, but it brought the fear back._

_When Bray turned to crouch over his sister, who'd fallen to one side and curled up in a sobbing ball, he saw blood on her dress. Both hands were covering her face, and when he pried her hands away from it, he saw her cheek had been cut open: a bright red line that ran from just under her eye to her upper lip. Her nose was bleeding some, too._

_He didn't have much time to look because one of Daddy's big hands grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and the next thing he knew, he'd been tossed down over one of the stumps._

_He caught it hard enough in the belly to make him cry. He wasn't no baby, but it _hurt_._

_And then something snapped down at him, a line of fire licking him from shoulder to butt, and he screamed. "You were supposed to watch after her!" a voice thundered down at him. Another line of fire. "You were supposed to watch _her_, you worthless bastard."_

_Three or four more lines burned across his back._

_Until he heard Abigail scream, "Stop it, Daddy! Bray! Bray! Daddy, stop! You're hurting him! You ain't supposed to hurt people! You ain't! It's bad!"_

"_Get _back_, little girl! I don't wanna hurt you_."

_He turned his head in time to see Abigail, her little face swollen and bloody, bite down on Daddy's big forearm. He picked her up by the scruff and the front of her dress and shoved her off of him._

_Her little feet, ordinarily so quick and nimble, got tangled up together and she fell backward onto one of the big rocks behind Daddy, her teeth clicking together when she hit her head._

_She never woke up._

x

_Later that night, Daddy, red-eyed from all the crying he'd done that day, crouched down in front of Bray. Bray'd spent most of that day in the rocking chair on the porch - _Abigail's _chair - trying to understand what all the grownups were trying to say: "accidents" and "gone off to be with the angels in heaven" and "she's not coming back."_

_It didn't make sense._

_Who was gonna go take him off for venchers now? Who was gonna chase frogs with him? Sing with him?_

_Daddy put both hands on the arms of the rocking chair to still it._

"_I'm sorry, Bray," he said. He _sounded _sorry._

"_You _pushed _her," Bray whispered at him, still too mad to be scared. His back hurt almost too bad for him to sit, but he didn't want to move. "You _pushed _her, Daddy. She was just trying to help."_

"_She _tripped_," Daddy said. "Don't forget that. You saw her trip. It was just a damn accident. She shouldn't have been there, that's all. You should've watched her better." He cleared his throat. "What you seen me doing before that? To that Harper boy? Forget about it. Just forget you saw him there. You understand me?"_

_Bray just nodded._

_Daddy jawed at him some more and said more stuff about forgetting, but Bray stopped listening and instead turned his attention up to the stars in the sky._

_He'd heard once those were all the angels in heaven._

_He wondered which one she was._

_He hoped she was the brightest._

_And he hoped she was up there having lots of venchers._

xXx

A/N: I kind of like to layer stories together; hope y'all don't mind. This, I think, is probably going to be a little different. But we'll be back to plot next chapter. Reviews are always appreciated. Thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you to everyone for the kind reviews. More backstory threaded in with this. Ambregal heavy. I'm on one of those kicks right now. Also, because this chapter is running long as it is, I'm splitting it up and will be posting the other half here in a few days, hopefully. 'Til then, enjoy.

xXx

III. Marking Territory_  
May 2011_

_During the morning hours, the FCW facility was actually tolerable, the sticky heat of day not yet having had time to settle in and turn the building into a sauna._

_It was only May, was the worst part, William Regal thought idly as he sat ringside studying the latest additions to the FCW roster._

_By July, this place would become utterly insufferable, the damp summer heat like a stifling blanket that no air conditioner could quite penetrate._

_Regal supposed he was glad he didn't have to _train _in this._

_The three in-ring trainers beside him chatted quietly amongst themselves while Dusty Rhodes stood in the center of the ring, watching the new wrestlers do likewise between themselves._

_A dozen or so in all this time, from all walks of life and in all manner of shapes and sizes - ranging from the small but powerfully built to tall and quite scrawny, and all kitted out in everything from fitted workout gear to ratty-looking oversized tee shirts and shorts - all on their very first day of evaluation and training, and all but one clearly excited to have the opportunity to try their hand at becoming a WWE Superstar or Diva._

_That exception was the scrawny lad in the back, and it was him Regal found himself watching just a bit more than the others._

_The lad didn't look like he belonged here: while he _was _decently tall (as much as Regal could tell, anyway, given he was slouched against the wall behind him), and had a broad frame, he was flat-bodied and untoned. His hair was a shaggy brown curtain framing an unremarkable face. Not ugly, certainly, but nowhere near as sigh-inducing as the Leakees and Seth Rollinses of the company._

_Everything about him in the looks department screamed 'average bloke off the street.'_

_Wasn't doing much to disguise his boredom and impatience, either, standing there yawning down at the floor, and not paying a scrap of attention to his fellow wrestlers or the trainers._

_The lad's attention shifted to the ring as Dusty finally got things rolling, but the bored expression never changed a hair. It remained in place as Dusty gave his traditional welcome speech; it didn't waver a scrap as Dusty introduced Regal and the other trainers; it actually intensified when Dusty began running through the day's schedule._

_He didn't even try to hide it._

_He yawned in the middle of Dusty's talk - twice - and didn't have the grace to cover his mouth._

_Regal found that rather infuriating._

_Dusty must have seen it, too, because as soon as he was done with his spiel, he announced he wanted each of them to come up to the ring and "tell us who you think y'all are."_

"_Ambrose!" he barked, pointing at the scrawny lad. "You're up first, boy."_

_The lad smiled like those were just the words he was waiting for, and pushed away from the wall, ambling up to the ring like he had nothing but time - all cocksure swagger and a sly, sharp little smirk._

_Regal's dislike ratcheted up another notch._

_But something in him took notice the same: whereas the other eleven wrestlers-in-training were nothing but blank canvases at this point, Ambrose had already thrown heel coloring all over his, bright and bold and vivid. It was in everything he did, from the way he sauntered up to Dusty and plucked the microphone out of his hand, the way his smirk widened as he took in his fellow aspiring Superstars and Divas, the defiant gleam when he glanced over at the trainers._

_And then he began speaking._

_After no more than a few seconds, as everyone else leaned forward like they were caught in some spell, Regal jotted two words next to Ambrose's name on his notepad._

_Circled them._

_Underlined them._

_Then he settled back to watch a skinny, uninteresting-looking young man become the single-most interesting thing he'd seen in _years _- articulate, wildly animated, full of raw animal anger and unabashed the-world-is-mine-for-the-taking wickedness, and bloody _sure _of himself._

_He was a young man who already knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to come straight out and say it._

_Regal forgot all about his dislike._

_Afterward, Ambrose chucked the microphone back to Dusty and had dropped down out of the ring into a kind of stunned, roaring silence._

_As he'd done so, though, he'd turned and caught Regal's eye, just for a second, and the corner of his mouth quirked up._

_Regal inclined his head in acknowledgment._

_The smirk twisted up, and then Ambrose swanned off to the back of the room._

_While the other trainers leaned in to make quiet conversation - already making plans to get the boy on the next television taping whether he could wrestle or not - Regal picked up his pen and underlined the first word again. Double-underlined the second._

Star_, the first read._

Trouble_, was the second._

_At a few other points during the others' in-ring introductions, Regal found himself glancing across the room._

_Each time, Ambrose caught him looking, and each time, Ambrose's mouth curled up._

_Regal mentally underlined _'trouble' _again._

_Triple-underlined it._

xXx

"Well?" Regal asked, tossing his bag down on his bed. "Any luck?"

Ambrose nodded. He'd gotten himself dressed in the same black tee shirt and trousers he'd had on last night, and now sat on the end of his own bed, engrossed in some sports programme on the television. Regal's phone lay on the the bed beside him, a bit of black amid a sea of white.

Regal hung his suit coat over the back of the desk chair. "And?"

"They'll be at the arena by two," came the short answer. "They stayed in Minneapolis last night."

"Hmm." Regal leaned back against the edge of the desk. "What happened? Did they say?"

"Wyatt." It sounded like a curse. He didn't look away from the television. "Told 'em I ran off like a little bitch. Guess he took my shit, too, 'cuz supposedly they got a text from me saying the same thing. That's why they left."

"I see." And Regal _did_ see, he supposed, and he furthered supposed that explained why Ambrose looked like he was on the brink of murdering someone. "D'you have a plan, then?"

"No."

Regal started to ask why, but aborted the question in favor of a noncommittal hum.

Ambrose glanced over quickly, and then just as quickly looked away. "What would you do? Like if it was you he screwed with. How would you get back at him?"

"I wouldn't," Regal said, after a moment's honest reflection. "Well. I'd make him suffer a bit, but in the end I'd just take him out and have done with it. He's not the sort you'd really want to leave hanging about."

"Yeah," Ambrose said, nodding, "yeah, that's what I said - the taking him out thing, anyway."

"Oh?" Regal asked casually. "Something your teammates disagreed with?"

Ambrose flicked his hair off his forehead. "Roman wants another match. Us against them. Or maybe him against Wyatt. I don't know. He just wants to do it in the ring."

"Makes sense, I suppose," he allowed, "but still not what I'd do." He pulled his coat off the chair and shrugged into it. "It isn't my fight, though, so it doesn't really matter what I think, does it?"

Ambrose mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like, "Yeah, it does," as he stood up and made like he was headed to the bathroom. He frowned when Regal held out a hand to stop him, light fingers landing in the middle of Ambrose's chest.

"What?"

Regal reached up to gently move Ambrose's chin to one side, fingers rasping soft through the stubble there. The marks - Regal refused to think of them as lovebites - Wyatt had left on Ambrose's neck stood out angry red against the pale of Ambrose's skin. "Did you tell them what he did to you?"

Predictably, Ambrose said, "No."

"How will you explain _these_?" He brushed a finger over one of the marks and refused to let himself notice Ambrose's quiet inhale, the way he shuddered a bit. "They'll wonder."

Ambrose's Adam's apple bobbed. "Fucked if I know." He laughed suddenly, the sound jagged and startling. "Maybe I'll tell 'em it was you."

"I'm sure that'll go a long way toward defusing the tension between you three," Regal said dryly. He frowned, though, because the more he studied those damned marks, the less he liked them.

He kept running his thumb over the ones on the left side of Ambrose's neck, thinking - thinking...no.

_Don't_.

No, no, he wasn't seriously thinking about-

Bloody hell, he was, wasn't he?

Ambrose was very still, just watching.

Before he could talk himself out of it, and without asking for permission, Regal stood up and moved in close to suck a mark of his own right over Wyatt's, ignoring the rough scrape of stubble against his chin and lips as he took that bit of skin between his teeth. His other hand found its way up to cup Ambrose's chin - kept him from jerking away.

Ambrose's back went stiff like someone'd jammed a steel rod up his spine, and Regal was close enough to _feel_ the sharp breath Ambrose took, a heavy vibration that rumbled through them both.

"Jesus _fuck_," Ambrose gasped. "The fuck are you _doing_?"

Regal pulled back so his lips were mere centimeters away from Ambrose's throat. "Well," he said, "if you're going to tell your mates it was me, I wouldn't want that to be a lie, would I? Now either tell me to stop, or hush."

He felt Ambrose's hands on his shoulders, but they didn't push or pull, and Ambrose never said a word.

Didn't look properly capable of it all of a sudden, the way his eyes had gone a bit cloudy.

Regal shrugged to himself and went back to it, working his way down and then across, and again tried to ignore the sharp inhales and bitten-back noises the boy made.

Tried to ignore the rough warmth under his hands and the twitching he felt below his own belt.

And most definitely did not let himself imagine himself doing this while they were both as unclothed as they'd been in bed this morning.

When he was done, he stepped back and admired his handiwork, and nodded in satisfaction. "There we are."

Ambrose's eyelids fluttered, and it was a full three seconds before he managed to pull himself out of wherever he'd gone in his head and focus his eyes again. His face was a bit flushed and the hand that drifted to his neck seemed almost tentative.

Regal turned to pick his coat up off the chair. Mostly to give his hands something to do. Otherwise he had a hunch they were going to do something naughty. "I'd, ah, I'd like to get going as soon as we can," he said, shrugging the coat on. "I've a meeting with Vince and Hunter around one, but I'd like to have a chance to stop by catering before that."

"You...I mean…" Ambrose's tongue darted out to his lower lip. "You can't just...you _can't…_"

"Can't what?" Regal prompted. "You might want to try actually finishing a sentence."

Ambrose suddenly spun away and kicked one of the beds hard enough to shift the mattress. "_Fuck_, Regal. You don't want me anywhere near you, but yeah, hey, it's cool for to go to town on me some dog pissin' on his territory to mark it. Oh, yeah," he added, turning a twisted-looking smirk Regal's way, "I know exactly what that was, and you're a fuckin liar if you say otherwise. What the _fuck_, man?"

Because he had no good answer for that, Regal made a show of checking his watch. "We do need to get going, actually, so kindly run along and get yourself cleaned up."

"What? No. Fuck you. Fucking answer me."

"I've nothing to say other than don't read anything into it. Now go."

Ambrose stared at him, all burning eyes and mouth a thin line, and Regal merely stared back, calm and implacable, and it was Ambrose who finally gave - as he always did - and stomped away.

Regal winced when the bathroom door slammed shut.

Sometimes, he thought, sagging back against the edge of the desk, sometimes he was a very stupid man.

xXx

"Well, now," Bray Wyatt murmured, half to himself, "looks like the little rabbit escaped the snare."

Beside him, Harper and Rowan both turned to look.

Down on the far end of the long hallway, well away from the madding crowd drifting in and out of the catering area - a place Bray and his boys avoided themselves - Dean Ambrose paced back and forth like something caged.

"Go on and see if his brothers-in-arms are anywhere around," Bray instructed Luke and Erick. "If they are, keep 'em busy a while. Oh, and if not, go and get the rabbit's things out of the truck. Leave 'em somewhere he can find 'em. I'm gonna go say hello."

"Sure that's a good idea?" Luke drawled. His eyes were narrowed beneath his bushy dark eyebrows, and Bray knew him well enough to read the disquiet there.

_Goin on a vencher_, Abigail suddenly whispered in the back of his mind. She sounded happy. _Gonna have some more fun with the bunny rabbit._

Bray smiled. "I'll be fine."

xXx

_Fuc-king Re-gal._

_Fuc-king Wy-att._

_Fuc-king Rol-lins._

_Fuc-king Ro-man._

Four steps, four syllables, turn.

Four steps, four syllables, turn.

Over and over in Dean's head like some little kid's fucking nursery rhyme or some shit, but _fuck_, it was all he could think, like these giant letters in his head blazing like words thrown up on the world's biggest billboard.

He really just wanted Seth to get here so they could _fix_ things.

Because he and Seth, they could. Roman - well, fuck, Roman too, he guessed, but that guy lately…

And Regal.

Yeah, that was one fucking Pandora's box that could fucking stay closed.

He didn't even know what the fuck he was thinking, climbing into bed with the asshole this morning. Just - after that dream, that fucked up fucking dream where he'd been running from those hillbilly motherfuckers while Wyatt yelled after him he was alone and would always _be_ alone-

"You seem a little agitated, little rabbit," a voice drawled from behind him. "You all right?"

Dean spun on his heel. His fucking heart slammed against his ribcage so hard he suddenly felt like he'd sprinted a hundred yards.

Bray Wyatt, dressed in his usual Hawaiian shirt and spotless white pants, leaned casually against a stack of equipment crates.

He grinned. "Well, well, well. Look at us. We're here."

xXx

_Early September 2011_

_He wasn't quite sure how it happened, but somehow Regal found himself leaning against the doorframe to the FCW arena's dark and cramped little back locker room, studying its lone occupant._

_Ambrose was fresh-showered, stretched out on room's only bench, a white towel under him and another wrapped around his waist. He had his head propped on his bag, arm flung over his forehead and the other over his stomach, bare feet crossed at the ankle._

_To look at him, you'd never know he'd just lost his biggest match to date at FCW; his face was smooth and calm, seemed more lost in thought, really, than anything._

_Seth Rollins, who'd finally earned his victory after three matches and almost an hour of even-steven wrestling, had been exuberant as he'd led his merry band of revelers out to go celebrate._

_Regal, meanwhile, finally pushed away from the doorframe and wandered in. He nudged Ambrose's bare feet off the end of the bench and sat down._

_Ambrose merely tucked his arm behind his head._

_If he was surprised to see Regal there, it didn't show._

"_By my count," Regal said at last, "you should have won that match five falls to two."_

_Ambrose shook his head. "Four-two, I think. Pretty sure I didn't have time for a third pinfall after I nut-shotted him."_

"_Mm, we'll have to agree to disagree about that," Regal said, folding his hands in his lap. "What happened?"_

"_I wanna beat Rollins, but I don't wanna have to defend some stupid medal after I do."_

"_It's not _stupid_. It's got-"_

"_History. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. I just don't want another target on my back. Leave the defending to people like Rollins who're stupid enough to _like _that shit. I'll settle for kicking his ass."_

"_Which you didn't do."_

"_Tonight."_

"_Why not ask Maxine to make it a non-title match, then?"_

_Ambrose's mouth twisted like he'd bitten something sour. "I did. She said no. So I'm like, well, I really, _really _don't want that medal, and I got a hunch me and Rollins are gonna keep bumping into each other after this, so I'll give him the worst fight of his life and let 'im walk away with one. I'll win the first match we have that doesn't involve a title. Or maybe I'll wait 'til we're on a bigger stage. 'Cuz that's where we're going. And I'll have so much fun cutting his fuckin' legs out from under him."_

"_That's…" Insane or ridiculous, possibly just crap, or any one of a hundred things Regal could have said but didn't. _

_All he did was shake his head and huff a disbelieving laugh._

_Ambrose grinned. "Think I'm full of shit, right? That's cool. You'll see." He said it easily, with no hint of offense or outrage, like it was a fact. _

_It probably _was_, in his mind._

_A bare foot suddenly nudged Regal's calf. "So, like, you ever gonna make a move or what?"_

_Regal blinked at him, caught wrong. "What?"_

"_Well, y'know, you don't _have _to just sit there jerking off to my matches." Ambrose's drew his hand back and forth across the taut line of his stomach, just above the edge of his towel. "Get what I'm saying?"_

"_Ah." Regal cleared his throat. It felt rather dry all of a sudden. _

_Ambrose remained where he was, unmoving and watchful, one corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk that looked lazy and just a little sharp._

_His cheeks were ruddy, his hair was drying in messy waves, and his eyes were very, very blue._

"_Do something about it," Ambrose said then, his voice gone low and rough, consonants scraping like sandpaper on wood, "is what I'm saying. You know, in case that wasn't clear. I want you to."_

"_You want me to," Regal mused. He rolled the words around in his head, and decided he liked them very much. Four very small, very powerful words. Smiling a bit himself, he ghosted the backs of his fingers along the bottom edge of the towel, midway up Ambrose's thigh. "Is that so."_

"_Yeah." Ambrose shuddered just a bit. "Yeah, just - you sit there, like, looking at me like you wanna choke me with your dick, or, whatever, fuck me through a wall, and it's like, why don't you?"_

"_Hmm." With that, Regal withdrew his hand and stood. "S'pose that's the question, isn't it?"_

_He thought he pulled off nonchalant well enough, for all that he honestly wanted to yank the boy's towel away and do one of the two things he'd just suggested._

_Possibly both._

_This grubby little locker room, though, was hardly the appropriate venue, and the old villain in Regal couldn't - quite - resist the temptation to have a bit of fun with this._

I want you to.

_That sounded like an open invitation to...well, anything, really, and that meant he'd have time to work Ambrose into a complete frothing lather._

_Bit of a dangerous game, given Ambrose's volatile nature, but Regal was hardly a stranger to that sort of thing._

_He slipped his hands into his pockets and smiled again. "I've got to be on my way."_

"_You know I could blow your mind," Ambrose said. It didn't sound like he was bragging. Or begging. Merely stating a fact. "Bet I'd be the best you ever had."_

_Regal laughed quietly. Oh, this was going to be fun. "Bold statement to make, isn't it?"_

"'_Cuz I know I can back it up." His eyes had gone half-lidded. He caught his lower lip between his teeth. "But whatever. Your loss. G'night, Regal."_

_"Good night, Mr. Ambrose."_

xXx

"Walk away, Wyatt," Ambrose said quietly. A dull red flush had begun to creep up his neck, and his knuckles had gone white at his sides. "Walk away and maybe I let you keep all your fuckin teeth. This time."

Bray propped an arm on the crate beside him, and reached up to take his hat off. "No need for violence, little rabbit. I'm only here to talk."

"I don't give a shit if you're here to hand me the keys to a new fuckin' Jaguar or my own private jet," Ambrose said. "If you don't turn the fuck around and get out of here - _now_ - I'll put you in the fuckin' ground."

"No, you won't," Wyatt said. "What do you think'll happen to your boys if something happens to me?"

To his surprise, Ambrose smiled. It was a flat thing, hard and a little unnerving. Ambrose looked like a man contemplating the best way to carve up a steak. "Not a fuckin' thing, actually," he said, "'cuz once I get done with you, I'll hunt down those two inbred motherfuckers and I'll plant them, too. You think I'm scared of you three and all your monsters and haunted rocking chairs and whatever, you got another thing coming."

All at once, he surged forward like something straight out of a slasher movie, like a bullet shot out of a gun, coming straight at Bray and not stopping until he stood close enough to kiss. He snapped his teeth shut a bare inch in front of Bray's nose, the sound like a couple of pool balls whacking together. It came in a wash of mint from the gum he was chewing.

Before Bray could do much more than blink, Ambrose leaned in real close. "You got one over on me last night," he said, breath hot against Bray's ear. "Well done. Well done. You fucked up, though. You knocked me down, but you didn't _put_ me down. Takes a hell of a lot more than _that_ to keep me from getting back up - to scare me off getting some of my own back."

He seized Bray's beard in a fist used it to yank Bray's head to one side. Teeth sank into the side of his neck hard enough to break the skin, hard enough to pull an involuntary, startled yelp right out of Bray. Reflexively, like a man swatting at a stinging wasp, he slapped at Ambrose's head and _shoved_.

Ambrose backed away, but not before his sharp teeth tore a little more skin open.

Bray felt blood, hot and wet, trickle down the side of his neck.

Ambrose's mouth was dark red with it. His eyes were fever-bright and he was grinning, grinning, _grinning _as he reared back, hawked, and _spat_ - not at Bray's face, but at his pants.

Bloody phlegm splattered against the pristine white one one thigh, and Bray saw red - a genuine red haze like a filter over his vision - in a way he hadn't since he was a teenager.

He twitched forward, hands clenched, but drew up short when he heard Abigail whisper at him, _No, no, not now, Bray, don't hurt him. He don't know any better. Just a dog kicked too many times, that's all. Don't hurt him._

His neck began to throb, dull and low like the onset of a migraine headache, and he made himself pull in a breath and smile. "Got some fight in you, after all," he said. "I like that. 'Course, you wouldn't know it, tight a leash as your boys keep you on. Why do you let 'em do that to you? Keep you leashed up like that? Gotta feel like it's strangling you sometimes."

Ambrose wiped his mouth on the back of one hand, and wiped that hand on his pants, a slow, deliberate gesture. He wasn't even looking at Bray now, glare aimed off at something at the end of the hallway as he wedged a thumbnail between his teeth and bit down. "I want my shit back," he said quietly. "My phone and my bags - all of it. I want it back right the fuck now."

"Oh, it's around somewhere," Bray said vaguely. "Does it bother you, little rabbit? That they're holding you back? That's it, isn't it? Maybe you're not better than them, but you're better than they're letting you be. All that ugly you got in you, you could do something with it. And I think you know it. Maybe that's why the crack in the Shield everyone's always talking about is between you and those two. What are you gonna do when the day comes and they kick you out of the car like some unwanted dog and leave you on your own?"

"I think I'm more like a duck than a rabbit," Ambrose said abruptly. "Like Daffy. You know? Yeah. Yeah, I think that's closer. I think Seth's more like Bugs Bunny than I am. Or maybe Pepe LePew, but that's kinda - well, no, when he farts…" He wrinkled his nose. "Who's Roman, though? Like Elmer Fudd, maybe? '_Be vewy vewy quiet. I'm hunting Wyatts.'_ Hey, yeah. Yeah, that's good."

Nonplussed, but more amused than he probably should have been, Bray smiled indulgently. "I always pictured you more as the Tasmanian Devil, myself."

Ambrose glanced over, eyes narrowing. Then shrugged. "That's fair. Guess that makes you, like, Sylvester or something. And, like, all three of us together, we're like Tweety or something."

"Birds in a cage," Bray said mildly, "that's more appropriate than you realize, considering who you work for. But I'm the big bad wolf, darlin. Don't ever forget that."

"Well, you smell like a wolf, that's for sure." With that, Ambrose headed off down the hall. "You should probably head up to the trainers, man. You're bleeding all over the fucking place."

"This isn't over," Bray said to his back. "You and me, we're just gettin' started."

Ambrose hitched a shrug and kept right on walking, easy, now, like he hadn't a care in the world. "Your funeral, puddy tat."

Bray remained where he was, hand over bite on his neck. It throbbed sharply at him, but, in spite of Ambrose's insistence to the contrary, didn't feel like it was bleeding anymore.

"Interesting creature," he murmured, half to himself. "I'm gonna enjoy you, darlin.

"I'm gonna enjoy you very much."

Abigail hummed happily in agreement.

xXx

Roman was quiet, and Seth didn't like that.

Dean was pacing the locker room, fuming silent, and Seth didn't like that either.

Roman sat quiet on the locker room's back bench, jaw to tight the muscles were ticking, and his big hands were opening and closing in a way that made his forearms ripple and his tattoo move in a way that was kinda weirdly hypnotic, which - okay, no, not something Seth needed to be noticing right now. But still.

A big hand on his knee made him look down.

He realized he'd been bouncing his heel on the floor, a manic _tap-tap-tap _that he stopped immediately, because it was fucking annoying.

But man, the silence in the locker room right now felt like a lead weight, pressing down on them, just such a complete absence of anything like _sound_ that Seth wanted to fucking scream to make sure he hadn't gone deaf.

So maybe they didn't believe Dean's story, after all.

He didn't want to _say_ that, but he knew Roman was thinking it and he knew _he_ was thinking it.

When they got up here, they'd found Dean digging through his suitcases, calm as you please, and covered in hickeys. He'd blown the hickeys off as Wyatt "mindfucking us," and had shrugged the suitcases off as he'd just found them in another locker room.

Convenient.

It was really convenient.

Plus, he wouldn't say who it was who'd found him.

All as he'd say as the three of them changed into their ring gear was that it was "one of the guys," and that it wasn't important.

Roman shot Seth a look, and the two of them pressed two or three more times, but Dean avoided the question, pacing the narrow aisle between the bench and the lockers while Seth and Roman sat together watching.

When he was a kid, Seth liked to shoot rubber bands at his sister - had this awesome rubber band gun that shot 'em perfect, drawing 'em back just until they were about to snap and then firing 'em off.

The tension in the room felt like that, like a rubber band about to snap, and Seth pushed his hair back off his face, sighing. "Run us through it one more time, Dean," he said. "And if it's not important, then why won't you tell us who found you?"

Dean was halfway down the aisle, most off to the side where all the showers were, and now he stopped. "Why does it fucking matter? Mean, what, what are you gonna do? Go ask 'em? What, do you not trust me all of a sudden? Wyatt attacked me and left me locked up. One of the guys found me and gave me a ride. Doesn't fucking _matter_ who it was, all right? It doesn't. So fucking let it go. What are we doing about the Wyatts?"

The look Roman gave Seth was pretty tight with his obvious skepticism, his dark eyebrows pulled down and his mouth a line. Seth just shrugged, like, _What are you gonna do_? Roman finally shook his head, just a little, and said, "Well, as far as Wyatt goes, I'm gonna deal him tonight myself. I'll challenge him for a match and I'm gonna put his creepy ass down for good. Just me and no one else."

Dean took a few steps closer, and then spun and jerked the other way. "Right. Big, bad Roman. Running off to slay the dragon again, all by himself."

Seth played with one of the buckles on his vest, and counted to ten in his head.

Twice.

"I got beat last night, in case you missed that part," Roman pointed out. Tense and relax went his fists.

There was some metaphor to be made there about Roman not having his shield, or maybe the shield breaking last night, but Seth found he didn't have the energy to pin it down. He just settled a hand on Roman's forearm while Dean stalked back and forth. "Rome, _we_ got beat last night. We. The team. Not just you. We all lost, and we all want revenge on the Wyatts."

"Yeah, but it was me they pinned."

Dean mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like, "Not just you got pinned last night."

Seth looked up sharply at that, and for one awful second, just one, he took in the hickeys and what Dean had said about Wyatt handcuffing him, and had this really, really sick image of -

_No._

He blinked it away.

Dean's blunt, bitten fingernails dug lines in his bare shoulder. "I just meant you get pinned, we all do. The, y'know, team thing or whatever."

"Cut that out," Seth told him. "You're gonna make yourself bleed."

"Don't tell me what to do," Dean said, but he pulled the hand away and started sucking on its fingernails - a bad habit they couldn't seem to break him of.

"I want Wyatt," Roman rumbled. He picked up one of his gauntlets off the bench beside him and began turning it over in his hands. "I want him tonight, and I want to be the one who takes him down. After last night, I think I earned that. I'll get revenge for all of us. _That_ is justice."

Even bent forward with his hair back in a ponytail and staring down at his gauntlet, there was just something _about_ the guy - something Seth couldn't identify.

Like an aura.

He was so assured, even though he'd been around the block less times than Seth and Dean.

And Seth guessed it was that, and the the belief Roman could absolutely handle it, that led Seth to look over at Dean and say, "Okay, so maybe this one time we let him. He took the pin. Let him challenge Wyatt. We watch out for Rowan and Harper. Cut the head off, the body dies, right? So then we take our yard back - together. Like we do."

"That's right, baby," Roman said, clapping Seth's shoulder. "That's _damn_ right."

Dean gave them a jaundiced look, and continued pacing.

But he didn't say anything, and Seth guessed that counted.

A quiet throat clearing from behind them had them all turning around.

William Regal, in head to toe black, stood with a knee leaned against the far end of the bench.

Seth's back snapped straight, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roman doing likewise.

"Sorry to interrupt," Regal said quietly, hands in his pockets. "I was just - ah, I was looking for _him_, actually." He jerked his chin at Dean. "You've still got my phone. I need to make a few calls here this afternoon."

Seth and Roman both turned to stare at Dean, whose confused frown gave away to chagrinned look. "Yeah, shit, sorry. Um. Yeah. Here it is." He pulled out a slim black cell phone and walked it over to Regal, who took it with a murmur of thanks.

Regal slipped the phone inside his coat pocket. Then he reached over to tip Dean's chin to one side, mouth twitching. Seth bristled at sight because Dean didn't even try to pull away. He just stood there as Regal ran two fingers over a couple of the marks, all casual-like, and said, "You'll probably want to have the makeup people do something about these before showtime."

_Now_ Dean pushed him away and took two steps back, face all knotted up. "Yeah, I already talked to 'em about it. Now do you mind? We're kind of busy here."

"Of course." Regal slid his hands back into his pockets, and began to turn away, then paused. "Oh, but by the way, Did any of you happen to hear why Bray Wyatt needed a few stitches in his neck this afternoon? I hadn't heard."

Seth forgot about his irritation as he exchanged blank looks with Roman. "No," Seth said, as Roman murmured, "Huh-uh. Didn't even know he was hurt."

Dean, examining his fingernails, said, "Nope."

Seth swore to God he saw a tiny look go between those two, though, and he definitely saw Regal's mouth twitch again. "I see," Regal said. "Well, I won't waste any more of your time, then. Good luck with the Wyatts, lads."

And just like Keyser fuckin' Soze, he was gone, disappearing around the corner and leaving the room without a sound.

Seth stood up, turned to look at Dean, and folded his arms over his chest. "What. The fuck. Was _that_?"

Dean's head snapped up. "Don't get pissy with me, Seth. It's not like I had a whole lot of choice. You were already gone and your fucking phones were off. I did try to call you to come get me, but, hey, gotta get that Seth-and-Roman time, right? Fuck everything else."

"Hey!" Roman said, surging to his feet. One big hand fell on Seth's shoulder. "We didn't do it on purpose, man. We thought you texted us."

"You thought I fucking _bailed_ on you!" Dean snapped at him. "You thought I fucking cut and run like some fucking chickenshit and - Jesus _fuck_, man. What the _fuck_?"

"Dean, calm down," Seth said quietly. Suddenly he was grateful for Roman's solid weight beside him. The hand on his shoulder. It was grounding. "Seriously. Chill out."

"Quit fucking telling me what to do!" Dean stalked off a few steps, spun, and walked back, all jerky-limbed and kind of reminding Seth of a can of soda shaken to the point it was about to blow up everywhere. "I'm not some fucking _kid_ you gotta tell what to do all the time. I _hate_ when you do that." He pulled to a sudden stop. "You know what? Fine. You two figure out what you wanna do about the Wyatts. I'm gonna go for a walk."

He jerked around again and stalked off.

"Dude, we didn't believe Wyatt when he said you ran," Seth called after him. "Just when we saw the texts."

But of course Dean didn't come back.

Seth punched his palm and twisted away from Roman, who frowned at him and sat back down.

"Dammit." Seth jerked his hair back out of his face, irritably, and shook his head. "It's like the three of us are speaking three different languages lately, man. How the fuck are we - am I - supposed to keep this shit together if we can't even understand each other anymore?"

He saw Roman opening his mouth to say something, but cut him off by slicing a hand through the air. "And don't even fuckin' start with that whole 'You and me understand each other just fine, Seth' crap. 'Cuz we _don't_, man. I agree with you that Dean's a pain in the ass, but, man, pain the ass or not, I want him on this team. He's just as much a part of it as we are."

"i know," Roman said. "I know, but things change and-"

"Not for the team, man. All for one. Remember?" He felt hot as he stood there watching the muscles in Roman's jaw work like he was chewing ice. "In the team - for the team - it's all three of us. You still need us both, like it or not."

"Seth-"

"But outside the team," Seth said over him, heart suddenly racing, " we can talk. Okay? Because I'm kinda - I mean, things could change there, maybe. That's what this is really about, right? Me and you apart from the team?"

"Could be," Roman allowed. "What kind of change?"

"We could, uh, talk to Dean, I guess. Tell him you and I want to, you know, just be you and I now."

Roman lifted his head and slow smile broke across his face like sunrise, gradually lighting his eyes. "Oh yeah?"

Seth had to swallow a couple times before he could answer. "Yeah. Mean, you and me, we've got something great going, right?"

"Yeah, man. Yeah, we do."

"And Dean, he's not the settling down type, so…" Seth walked back over to the bench and sat down, trying to gather the thoughts slipping against each other like soap bubbles in his head. "But we don't just kick him to the curb, all right? We gotta do this right. He deserves better than that." Deserved a lot better, actually, but that was a thought for another day. "And just because we're together, don't expect me to back you more on the team. We're equals on the team."

"That's fair."

"I kind of want to wait until we're past all this Wyatt crap before we do this, too. That okay?"

"Yeah, it'll be fine, as long as you let me challenge Wyatt tonight. I'll put him down and that'll be that." He reached up to pull his hair out of its ponytail. "And I really want to hear Dean tell us the whole story from last night. The whole thing. I don't know if I like Regal being involved."

"Makes two of us. Did you see that shit? Regal was, like, all over him."

"I saw. We need to ask."

Seth nodded. "When we see him."

"Okay," Roman said. He looked at Seth thoughtfully. "Wonder what happened to Wyatt."

"Who cares, man? That asshole deserves everything he gets. And, anyway, you take him out, Dean and I'll deal with the other two, and then you can I figure out-" he made some vague gesture all around them "-the rest of this shit."

Roman nodded and covered Seth's knee, squeezed it. "Good plan, man."

"My plans always are," Seth said, dropping hand over Roman's.

"That they are."

Silence fell again, but this time, Seth didn't mind.

He looked at Roman, whose hand flipped over to curl around his fingers, and he didn't mind a bit.

xXx

_Late September 2011_

_"That was childish," Regal said. He folded his arms over his chest. "What you did to Rollins."_

_Ambrose slouched back against the wall and chewed a thumbnail. "He'll thank me for it later."_

_Thanks to Ambrose, Seth Rollins had lost his FCW 15 title to Damien Sandow. "How d'you reckon that?"_

"_He _will_," Ambrose insisted with an enigmatic smile. "You'll see."_

_Regal frowned. "What are you planning?"_

"_For me to know." He made a show of looking around the empty little cinderblock hallway in which they'd found themselves. "So you finally clawed your way out from under Maxine's desk, huh?"_

_"I don't know what you're talking about."_

_"'Course you don't. Then again, if I was rolling around in that filth, I wouldn't talk about it either." His eyes narrowed. "Figured you'd have better taste."_

_"There's nothing wrong with my taste," Regal replied, chuckling. "I know what I want and what I don't."_

_"You're full of shit, Regal," Ambrose replied, teeth clicking around his nail. "You want me and you know it."_

_"Do I, now? And yet..." He moved until he had Ambrose backed against the wall. "I'm disappointed, actually. I was rather hoping you'd be a challenge. I wasn't expecting you to throw yourself at me like some common ring rat." He ghosted a finger along the line of Ambrose's stubbled jaw. "Eager young thing, aren't you?"_

"_Not a fuckin' rat," Ambrose said. "Mean, I got respect or whatever for all the shit you've done in your career, but, like, that ain't why. And besides which, you're the one having fucking orgasms on the air every time you talk about me. You're really my groupie, if you think about it." He smiled suddenly. "Bet you jerk off thinking about me. Bet that gets you off real good."_

_Regal snorted. "Silly little boy with his delusions of grandeur. I don't, actually. I don't think about you at all once I leave this place." He lowered his hand and stepped back. "You're fascinating to me, Mr. Ambrose, in the same way a hurricane is - something that's interesting to watch from a distance, but not something I'm terribly interested in getting close to and something I'm glad to see gone. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back."_

"_Back under that filthy bitch's desk, right?"_

"_Careful. I think your jealousy's showing."_

"_I'm not jealous," Ambrose snapped after him. "Why would I be jealous? I can fuck whoever I want."_

_Regal tossed him a look over his shoulder. "Clearly not everyone."_

x

_He supposed it shouldn't have come as much of a surprise that Ambrose attacked him, but it did._

_As they rolled around backstage, Ambrose got close enough to whisper, "Either fuck me or fight me, Regal. but you're not fucking walking away from me again."_

_Regal'd punched him right in the mouth._

_Somehow it was less satisfying than he thought it'd be._

xXx

When he could avoid it no longer, Dean slipped his Shield hoodie on and made his way to the little area backstage where one of the production guys told him Seth and Roman were waiting for him.

All around, the place was buzzing as _Monday Night RAW_ had been rolling for almost an hour now. He could feel the fucking _YES_ chants reverberating all around him, buzzing under his skin like bugs, while the other wrestlers and PAs raced around like headless chickens.

Nearly three hours of pacing on the concrete concourse hadn't done much but make his feet ache, and he felt edgy, like he was about to step onto fucking minefield, which he fucking _shouldn't_ have to because weren't these his fucking _friends_?

He shoved his hands deep into his hoodie's pocket.

Weird day.

Good as it had felt to finally get one over on Wyatt - _on my own, and fuck you very much, Rome_ - he kind of felt like the rest of the day had been a neverending string of low-blows.

He'd tried to find Regal to give that asshole a piece of his mind for pulling that stunt in the locker room, but of course Regal was suddenly nowhere to be found.

Neither was Wyatt, but Wyatt usually did that - disappeared somewhere to brood or whatever cult leader hillbilly assholes did when they were, like, plotting or whatever.

(Which was probably a good thing because the mood he was in, he'd probably start something with those three that would've gotten his ass kicked. Probably .)

He kind of found himself picturing, like, Sylvester sitting underneath Tweety' birdcage, staring up at him, but Wyatt's comments about birds in cages and dogs on leashes kinda sucked all the humor out of that.

And now, here were Seth and Roman, standing side by side, Roman with his thumbs hooked into his belt and staring down at the floor while Seth stood on tiptoes and craned around like he was looking for someone.

It was kind of a dumb thing to notice, and Dean didn't know why he did, but their hair was still dry.

That made him feel a little better - like they were waiting _for_ him and not _on _him.

He deliberately scuffed his boot against the floor so they heard him coming.

"Hey, there you are," Seth said, and he sounded tentative but hopeful, and it always made Dean feel kind of like an asshole when Seth sounded like that.

More than anybody Dean had met, Seth _tried_, and that counted.

Not many people ever did, not for Dean, so he took a calming breath as he paused near them. Tried to work something other than anger into his voice. "Yeah. So what are we doing? What we talked about earlier?"

Seth's head bobbed as he nodded. "We're gonna hit the ring here in a few minutes and throw out the challenge. Roman'll do his thing, you and I'll hang out back here to keep an eye out for Rowan and Harper, and then we take our yard back. Another night at the office, right?"

Dean nodded jerkily, and bit the inside of his lip to keep himself from saying anything else.

He still didn't know why the hell he was so mad, anyway.

He stood fidgeting, fingers up near his shoulders - _don't scratch; they'll just yell at you _ - while he stared at the floor while he tried to figure it out.

Seth cleared his throat. "Will you walk us through it one more time? What happened last night? The whole thing. Start to finish."

"What?" Dean asked. Then thought, _That's why_.

Because they already fucking knew, but they were asking again anyway.

"Walk us through it one more time," Seth said again, a little more forcefully. "Tell-"

Temper flaring all over again, Dean snapped, "I already explained-"

"-us what went down last night."

"I already explained this to you like five times." He looked up. Seth and Roman were standing close together like some kind of solid human wall. So much for trying. "I'm get a little sick, quite frankly, of you two ganging up on me," he said.

Seth blinked. "We're not ganging up on-"

"And I'm getting a little sick of explainin myself. But if that's not good enough for you, and you don't trust me-"

"That's not it-"

"-then whatever. _Whatever_." That quick, he was done again. They knew. They fucking _knew_, but it was like even that wasn't good enough. "I'm outta here."

For like the fifth time today, he stalked off.

If there was like an Olympics for dramatic exits, he would have gotten the gold fucking medal, but fucking _really_. After everything they'd been through today, after they fucking _knew_ Wyatt had attacked him, for them to actually fucking question him _again_ like they _didn't_ fucking believe him…

He shot one last glance over his shoulder, just in time to catch sight of Wyatt - bandage and all - and his boys slithering up toward Seth and Roman.

And he shoved his hands back into his pockets and kept right on walking.

xXx

He wanted to leave the arena, wanted to just go, but lacking a car of his own kind of put a damper on that.

After he snagged his coat - glad to have that shit back - from his bag, he threw it on over his hoodie and walked around in the hopes he'd find Cesaro or somebody he could bum a ride with.

_Regal_? his mind supplied.

"Fuck _that_," he muttered to himself, and shot one of the poor divas - one of the Bellas - a glare when she whipped around to look at him.

She scurried away, eyes wide with something like terror.

He was an asshole, sometimes.

Eventually, he shoved the exit doors open and headed outside into the frosty February night. And, fuck, it was _cold_, but to skin that felt like it was going to melt right the fuck off his bones, it felt like fucking _heaven_.

He leaned back against the bumper of one of the big production semis and just breathed out.

It was cold enough he could see it, the vapor in the air.

Made him miss smoking.

He was cracking the fuck _up_, wasn't he?

And then, because the universe just hated him that fucking much tonight, he heard a door close behind him, heard what sounded like several sets of heavy footsteps approaching, and heard, "Well, now, isn't this _interestin_. The little dog slipped his leash. But he's wandered off all by his lonesome again. How about that?"

Dean looked around for an escape route, but some crazy fucking freight train slammed into his stomach – a freight train attached to a big pasty arm, which itself attached to a big dude wearing a fucking camel mask – and he folded up like a cheap paper towel, wheezing, his eyes watering, and all the fight gone out of him.

Wyatt moved in fast, hooking hands under Dean's arms and spinning him around crazily, like they were a couple of drunks ballroom dancing, but suddenly he felt himself bent over backward.

Felt the scratching brush of hair and the soft kiss.

Heard, "She likes you, you know. She wants me to try and save you," just before he felt himself twisting toward the pavement.

The dark rose up and swallowed him whole, and he let it.

Gladly.

xXx

A/N: To be continued. Thanks for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks to everyone for the kind reviews, and once again thanks to everyone who's read this beat. I'm glad you're liking it so far. It's a bit on the slow side, but we'll get there eventually. Enjoy,

**By and Down**  
IV. In and Out of the Shadows

_October, 2011  
Regal never was much of one for superlatives._

_He didn't tend to rank his opponents or compare them - didn't have favorites or think of them in terms of the "the most" or "the best."_

_He prepared for each match exactly the same: studying his opponent until he figured out their strategies, until he found their weak spots (everyone had at least one, and most more than that), until he _knew _them._

_Although interesting and unusual, Ambrose was hardly 'the worst" or "the best" or "the most" anything Regal had faced in his career, and Regal prepared for the match just exactly as he had hundreds of matches before it._

_And, in truth, he found the it wasn't terribly difficult; he'd been studying Ambrose from the day he walked into the company, and knew the lad's methods and weaknesses probably better than anyone._

_Going into it, Regal knew he stood little chance of losing._

_Ambrose was grossly overconfident - a naive little boy bashing a hornet's nest he should have bloody well left alone - and it probably wouldn't take much to goad him into making a critical mistake._

_Shame, that._

_Shame Ambrose attacked him at all and insisted on this idiotic fight, but Regal supposed that was what he got for trying to play a more subtle intellectual game with someone who, by and large, was the walking embodiment of the Freudian Id: impatient, driven by his whims and a strong need for immediate gratification._

_Seemed to be typical of his generation, though._

_All now-now-now, and no patience or appreciation for the subtler, finer things in life._

_Of course, Regal supposed he was a bit of a relic in this day and age._

_But not so old he couldn't teach young Ambrose a thing or two._

_It was a physical match, the two of them pummeling one another more than actually wrestling, just as Regal expected. Back and forth it went, the two of them staying on surprisingly even footing, until Ambrose made one mistake and Regal flipped him onto the ring apron._

_When Ambrose got up, his arm was dangling useless at his side._

_Regal knew it was basically over at that point, but decided to prolong the match just because he could - just because the idea of punishing this obnoxious twit for his impatience held a great deal of appeal._

_The thing about Ambrose, though, Regal discovered, the thing that he really hadn't prepared for, wasn't how Ambrose strung his attacks together without an apparent strategy or how quick he was, but rather that he just. Bloody. Wouldn't. Stay. _Down_._

_Even with his arm hanging grotesquely from its socket, Ambrose still smirked up from his knees and said, "That the best ya got?"_

_Even with Regal's forearm scraping across his face and his injured arm wrenched in the most hideously uncomfortable position Regal could get it into, Ambrose laughed wildly and said, "That supposed to hurt? It fuckin' tickles!" all the while trying to eel his way out of the hold._

_Even backed up in the corner, eyes glazed and nearly out on his feet, with Regal's forearm across his throat, Ambrose choked out, "You coulda done this to me while you were fuckin' me, y'know. I totally dig it."_

_Even after the Regal knee put him down for the count, the idiot boy jumped right up to his feet and demanded a rematch. His arm was dead weight at his side and his face was chalky pale from what had to be a tremendous amount of pain, but his eyes were bright with furious determination._

"_You give me another match," he called down from the floor, "and you won't beat me again."_

_Regal ached all over, but still managed to dig up a little smirk that said it knew better._

_Part of him, though, couldn't help noticing just _how _quickly Ambrose had gotten up, and that part of him really wondered._

xXx

Bray sent Erick off to grab Ambrose's luggage from the locker room again, while he and Luke carried the little rat to the truck. They tossed him into the back and made quick work of tying his wrists and feet, gagging him, and tying him down to the truck bed so he wouldn't be able to move, even if he woke up.

Afterward, Luke leaned against the tailgate and turned to look at Bray.

Bray stared up at the night sky often, but always like he was searching for something, sort of half-turned in on himself.

Luke never liked to interrupt him, but this time he couldn't help himself. "What about the others?"

"I'm sure Rollins will be around during the match," Bray said. His face was mostly shadow under the brim of his hat. "When you and Erick appear, it'll likely draw him outta wherever he'll be hiding. You and Erick take him down. We'll take him with us after the match. Did you two decide which of you gets him?"

"If it's all right," Luke said, "we want to share them both."

Bray actually smiled at that. "Fine with me," he said. "Look at you boys, actually willing to share. Seems like it wasn't so long ago you couldn't stand each other. But look at you now - stronger and better than ever. You're brothers now. Steppin' out of your shadows and into a whole new spotlight. Does my heart glad."

Erick was lately-come to the family - another lost soul Bray'd rescued somewhere down in the swamps. Big and mean, he'd fought everybody - especially Luke - until Bray took him back out into the swamps for a few days.

What happened out there, what was said and what was shown, neither Bray nor Erick ever told, but Erick came back transformed.

Quiet and obedient, humble, and willing to listen where he was none of those things before.

He and Luke never fought now.

"You did it," Luke pointed out. "Your teaching. Your guidance. Hers, too."

Luke had been ten when Bray's little sister passed, but he still remembered her, remembered her always shadowing Bray everywhere.

He swore she still did.

Shadowed him and led, but where they were going, he had no idea.

Bray's smile widened. "We just set your feet on the path. It was you who chose to walk it with me. We are going to do great things. Terrible things, but great ones."

Luke jerked his head toward the back of the truck. "What are you going to do with him?"

"Another lost soul for us to try and save," Bray replied. "He'll be a challenge, I'm sure, because I doubt he's even aware how lost he is, but with time and patience, he'll come to see it. She'll show him."

Uneasy all of a sudden, Luke pulled his flannel tighter around himself. "He about ripped your throat out, Bray. I ain't sure I like the idea of him bein' that close to you. And I know you can show him, but what if he don't want to see it?"

If he noticed the cold, Bray gave no sign. He dressed the same whether it was freezing cold or boiling hot, and right now his breath made vapor trails in the air. Finally, he looked around and reached over to pat Luke's shoulder. "We'll keep him locked up and his mouth covered for now. That way he won't have a choice but to listen and look, and that way I'll stay safe. 'Course," he added, "I can always let you yank his teeth out of his face if he gets too rabid."

Luke grinned. "I'd enjoy that."

"I know you would," Bray chuckled. "And if he doesn't want to see, he can spend his days as Abigail's plaything. She's taken a shine to him."

The way Bray's gaze lingered on the back of the truck, Luke thought maybe Bray had, too.

He didn't say that, though.

He just rubbed his nose - it was about frozen - and turned to wait for Erick.

xXx

Regal honestly meant to leave it alone.

He did.

Hunter had asked him to stay on with the main roster through the summer to work with some of the newer NXT talent that would be debuting soon, and he'd accepted the offer quite gratefully. He enjoyed himself down at NXT - and would continue to do commentary there - and most certainly enjoyed his scouting trips, but there was something about always being on the moved he'd found rather comforting.

Used to it, he supposed, for all he'd spent thirty years doing it.

He'd never quite got the hang of settling somewhere and putting down roots.

The opportunity to be close to the main stage again, even if he had to live vicariously through others, was one he couldn't pass up.

At the moment, that meant he was gathered with a few others around of the monitors to watch the latest Shield-related drama unfold.

Ambrose stomped off in a right sulk after Rollins questioned him - _yet again_ - about what had happened last night. Rollins more or less insinuated after Ambrose left that they didn't believe him, and Regal supposed that was probably _his_ fault for seeking Ambrose out in the locker room earlier, but he _had_ needed his phone, and it was hardly his fault the locker room was the most obvious place to look.

How was he meant to know the others had made it in?

Still, Regal resolved to stay out of it.

He meant to - even after Wyatt accepted Reigns' challenge and after Wyatt led his two ugly guard dogs off in the direction Ambrose had gone.

What happened last night between Ambrose and Wyatt was _not_ his problem.

It wasn't.

But if, fifteen or so minutes later, he found himself casually wandering 'round a hallway that happened to lead to where the main locker was, well, it was the main hall and it wasn't as if he was actually _looking_ for anything - anyone - in particular, now was it? He felt a touch restless, was all, and a nice stroll about the arena seemed to be in order.

And if, as he was ambling about not going anywhere in particular, he just happened to spot one of Wyatt's men - the ginger git with the sheep's mask - carting some luggage out of the locker room, well, he supposed there was no harm in following, discreetly.

The luggage _did_ rather bear a passing resemblance to luggage he'd seen Harper walk away with last night.

It would, he thought idly, be a shame if that luggage was separated from its own again.

If any of the other people Rowan passed in the hallway noticed, they gave no sign; they simply let him walk right by, most of them - three divas, the Miz, and Fandango - just looking grateful he didn't stop

Regal didn't blame them.

He followed, though, just-so-happening to be headed that direction himself.

It was cold out, the restless night air having rather sharp teeth, but he slid his hands in his pockets and moved into the narrow gap between a couple of production trucks to wait. He remained there until he heard Wyatt and his troupe tromp on by, Wyatt signing that damned children's song again, and one of the two hulking gargoyles behind him whistling it.

Once he was certain they were inside, he ambled across the quiet carpark - _just popping out to get something out of the car, thanks_ - and over to where Wyatt's truck - an ugly thing, gray and boxy and quite old, that looked every bit as sullen as the Wyatts themselves - was parked.

Light from one of the lamps overhead buzzed down through the shadows, just enough to see by, and he was glad of that.

He peered over the truck's tailgate, and felt alarm cut straight through any notion he'd been anything other than concerned this would happen.

The luggage - Ambrose's he was sure - was there, but there was something else, something roughly human-shaped, but covered up by a mildewy old blanket.

He scrambled into the back - barking his shin in the process - and, heart hammering, threw the blanket off.

Ambrose lay on his side, mouth taped shut again, his hands tied together behind him and also tied to his ankles, which themselves bound. Probably a good thing he wasn't awake, because the position looked bloody uncomfortable - they had wrenched his heels up nearly to his backside, making him look like some sort of bow ready to have an arrow shot out of it.

They'd also tied him down to truck bed, another length of rope criss-crossing like a shoelace between a series of eye bolts on either side of him.

He was alive, though, clearly breathing, and Regal nearly sagged to his knees with relief.

As it was, he had to take a moment to gather himself, deep, calming breaths pulled in and released, before he could properly assess the situation.

_Idiot. You damned foolhardy idiot._

Anger – frozen fury – tried to seep in around the edges of his consciousness, but he pushed it to the back of his mind.

More important things to worry about now.

They'd tied Ambrose up with rope this time, slick white nylon, and they'd tied him tight, but whoever'd done it had used quick-release knots - similar to the ones Regal himself favored, and had to huff a quiet laugh at that because who the bloody hell knew _that_ particular fetish would come in handy some day?

Less than a minute later, he tossed all the ropes out onto the ground beside the truck.

That done, he eased Ambrose over onto his back and then moved to crouch by his shoulder. Ambrose showed signs of stirring, eyelids fluttering a bit, as Regal reached for the tape, and by the time Regal pitched the wadded-up ball of it over the side of the truck, Ambrose's eyes were halfway open.

Regal leaned over him. "Are you all right?"

"...fu-huh-huck," Ambrose groaned. One hand found its way to his temple. "Man. The hell hit me?"

"Wyatt, probably," Regal said.

"Mm. Where are we?"

"Back of Wyatt's truck," Regal said. "As for what happened, you'll have to tell me. I'm assuming an ambush of some sort after you stomped off."

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, by one of the trucks." Ambrose pulled himself up so he was sitting. The hand never left his head. "Smells like ass back here."

Regal snorted. "They're not exactly the most hygienic bunch, are they? I'm quite sure I'll have to send everything I'm wearing off for decontamination." He studied Ambrose critically. "_Are_ you all right? Do we need to get you in to see one of the doctors?"

"I'm fine. I got worse last night." His eyes widened and he darted a frantic look around. "Oh, _fuck_. The match. Roman and Wyatt. What happened in the match? Are they okay? Seth and Roman? Are they all right?"

"Calm down," Regal said quietly. "The match hadn't started yet. It may have by now, but it hadn't when I came out here. They were fine."

"Okay," Ambrose said, nodding. "Okay, good. Okay. I gotta get down there. I gotta - yeah. I gotta go." He pushed off the wheel well and got to his feet, where he stood swaying enough that Regal shot up and put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from tumbling over the side of the truck.

"Easy, lad," Regal murmured, frowning. He didn't dare let go. "Easy."

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Ambrose mumbled. Sounded like he'd swallowed a mouthful of gravel. "Just - stood up too fast, is all. Headrush. Gimme a second."

It was more like ten seconds, and Regal stood quiet the entire time, staring off into the darkened car park beyond the truck. A few people meandered by in the distance, but no one he recognized, and no one came close enough he worried about it.

Ambrose eventually pushed his hand away and made his way to the tailgate. He seemed a bit steadier on his feet as he climbed over and hopped down.

"What about your things?" Regal asked. "I wouldn't advise leaving them here."

Hand still on the tailgate, Ambrose jerked back around, blinking like he'd already forgotten Regal was there. "Uh. Fuck." The hand combed through his hair, sending it shooting up in a dozen wild directions. "Okay, uh, hand me something, then. My backpack or whatever. I'll, uh, I dunno, stash it all somewhere out here, I guess. Whatever. Just - yeah. Hurry."

Regal fished his rental car's key's out of his coat pocket. "I'm parked a few spaces over behind you," he said, tossing them down. "Put it all in there for now. I'll wait for you so you can get them once the match is over."

There were only three bags, and Ambrose got it all in one trip.

Regal hadn't even begun to climb down out of Wyatt's truck when Ambrose jogged back over, tossed the keys back with his thanks, and raced off toward the arena at a full sprint, leather coat flapping about him like bat wings.

"I'll wait for you outside your locker room," Regal called.

An impatient flick of a wave was his only acknowledgement.

Shaking his head, he made his careful way down from the truck. He gathered up the ropes, fully intending to toss them back in Wyatt's truck, but, after a quick second thought, carried them over to his own car, setting them in the boot with the handcuffs.

One never knew when such things would come in handy, did one?

On his way back into the arena, with that crisis behind him, anger crept in, hot and dark, and he glutted himself on the images of all the hideous ways he could tie Wyatt and his two men up while he cut them apart inch by inch.

_So much for staying out of it._

xXx

Seth knew he was screwed, but if he was going down, it was going to be swinging.

Or flipping over the top rope, as the case was.

Harper and Rowan, of course, hadn't been ay the hell out of Roman's match.

Of fucking _course_.

So Seth slipped out from under the ring and, with the crowd roaring its approval at him, raced across and flipped over the ropes onto Rowan and Harper, who both fell down, just as stunned as Seth by the impact.

Landing on concrete just _hurt_.

There was no two ways about it.

From where he landed, he could see the big screen. On it, he saw Roman take the fight to Wyatt, landing solid punches that staggered the creepy bastard.

But just as Seth made it back to his feet, Roman missed a charge and rammed shoulder-first into the ringpost.

He rolled out of the ring and didn't get back up.

One of Wyatt's boys seized Seth's hair and Seth only had time to think, _Oh fuck _before he found himself being bounced back and forth between Rowan and Harper - who smelled like they hadn't bathed in _weeks_, all stale sweat and unwashed clothes and rancid breath strong enough to turn Seth's stomach - like some kind of swinging pinata at a kid's party.

Huge fists pummeled him and big boots smashed him until his damn ears rang, and it fucking hurt, but the thing that probably hurt worst of all was knowing no help was coming.

_I'm outta here._

"Pick him up!" Wyatt bellowed over the crowd's boos. "Pick him up."

Harper or Rowan - Seth's head was swimming too much for be able to tell - did.

There was a sudden roaring in Seth's ears, and he thought, muzzily, _oh fuck, let it be quick, let it be quick_, just before something that felt like a bulldozer slammed into whoever was holding him, jarring them both hard enough for Seth to bite his tongue when he smacked the floor.

The roaring, he realized blearily, wasn't in his head at all.

It was the crowd.

It was the crowd because Dean was there. Dean was _there_ in a leather jacket and fighting like a human fucking tornado, and it was the adrenaline shot Seth needed to get back to his feet and join the fray.

The whole atmosphere changed, with the crowd chanting its approval as Roman made it back to the ring and kicked the shit out of Wyatt, and oh, fuck, it was _awesome_, that energy, it was fuckin' electric, just like old times, and Roman _had _it-

Until he didn't.

Until Harper distracted Roman, and Dean slid into the ring.

Dean _unloaded_ on Wyatt, snarling, "You think you can do that to me, fucker? You think you can fuckin' _do _that?"

The ref signalled for the bell.

Harper and Rowan hit the ring as everything broke apart.

In the end, the Shield took their damn yard back, sending the Wyatts scurrying up the ramp like rats deserting a sinking ship, but man, the furious look Wyatt gave them promised it wasn't over, and in fact Wyatt bellowed over the crowd noise, "You this is over? It's just getting started, boys. We are just getting started."

As Seth looked at Dean, who was glaring murder at Wyatt, an at Roman, whose eyes were practically spitting sparks both at the Wyatts and at Dean, he couldn't help thinking this didn't feel anything like a victory.

Not at all.

xXx

_Later, well after the match, and after most of the FCW roster had gone home for the night, Regal was nearly startled into a heart attack._

_He was loading his things into his car when Ambrose's voice drifted out of the dark behind him. "So you got what you wanted, right?" Sounded like he'd swallowed broken glass. "You won. You beat me. That's what you wanted. You're not better, not always, but tonight you were."_

_Once his heartrate returned to something less lethal, Regal closed the boot and turned to lean back against it, hands loose on either side of him. _

_Ambrose stood a short distance away, a shadow-wrapped figure stopped just beyond the edge of the pool of orange light the lamp overhead threw down. His left arm was in a sling - dark, against the pale of his shirt - and for once he stood still._

_Regal wasn't sure he liked that; bit too much like a prey animal poised to attack. Still, he made himself remain calm. "What d'you want?"_

"_It was stupid," Ambrose said, shifting, "going after you like that. I shouldn't have."_

"_No," Regal said, looking pointedly at the sling, "you shouldn't have. What did the doctor say?"_

"_Dislocated. They popped it back in. I gotta take a few weeks off."_

"_How unfortunate." Regal made a show of examining his fingernails. "There's something to be said for being patient, you know. Might have found yourself getting something other than a dislocated shoulder for your troubles."_

"_I know," Ambrose said. "I knew as soon as I attacked you I made a mistake." He squinted up. "I don't make mistakes like that. But you make me so fuckin' mad sometimes I can't think straight."_

"_Because I won't give you what you want."_

"_We want the same fucking thing!" Ambrose yelled at him. His good hand cut through the air as if to emphasize the point. "But you gotta jerk me around and fuck with my head, and _what for?" _He pulled in what sounded like a ragged breath and backed off a step, turning to glare off into the nearly empty carpark. "You think it's funny, don't you? Get me all wound up. You get off on that."_

"_I'm a villain, lad," Regal pointed out. "That's rather what I do. And if you'll excuse me," he added, straightening away from the car, "it's late and I'm quite knackered. You need to go look after that shoulder."_

"_Fuck the shoulder!" Ambrose snapped. "Stop fuckin' running away. Jesus Christ, you're so fucking stupid. You gotta play these stupid fucking games instead of just fucking taking what you want. Why? Why do you gotta waste time twistin me up _here-" _he tapped the side of his head "-when you could be twistin me up in ways we'd both find a whole hell of a lot more fun?"_

_There was a note of such utter desperation to the question that had Regal backing up, slowly, toward his driver's side door, eyebrows pulled together._

"_That's enough, lad," he said quietly, gently, all games and sly amusement and attempts at flirting put aside. "I don't know why on Earth you wanted this so much in the first place, but I don't think it's a good idea. In fact," he added, shifting his keys from hand to hand, "it might be best if we stayed away from one another for the time being. Shouldn't be too hard, if you're taking time to let your shoulder rest."_

_Even if Ambrose wouldn't stay down, the fact of the matter was Regal had taken it farther than he probably should have. He'd gotten a bit lost in all the mind games. Even worse, he'd gotten even more lost in the desire to inflict as much pain as he could - not to teach Ambrose any sort of lesson, but just because he'd wanted to hear Ambrose scream again._

_The match _should _have been stopped the instant the dislocation happened._

_But Regal had attacked it like a dog attacking a raw steak, and good lord, he could have ended the idiot boy's career before it even had a chance to properly start._

_And he wouldn't have felt a scrap of remorse for it, either, not then._

_Ambrose, meanwhile, made his way over. His face was pain-creased and pale, eyes tight at the corners. Both his forehead and his good hand were knotted up. "Don't. Don't do that."_

_Regal held out a hand to ward him off. "I don't what it is you think you want from me, but you're not going to get it. You don't _need _it. I don't want you, all right? I never made a move because I never planned on it. I was just having a bit of fun at your expense. You made it easy."_

"_Bullshit-"_

"_No, I was," Regal said, harshly. "Now go home. Go home, heal up, and bloody move on. Find somebody else to pester - Rollins or whoever." A thought that made his stomach twist rather unpleasantly, if he was honest, but it was better that way. It was. "Just leave me alone."_

"_You're full of shit, Regal. You're a chickenshit liar. I want another match."_

"_No."_

"_I want another match," Ambrose repeated, pushing closer yet. His eyes were practically glowing with fury; Regal could feel it radiating off of him in heated waves. "You wanna punk out and be a pussy about this other thing, fine. Fuck you, but - whatever. Be a pussy then. Your loss. But a match? You fucking owe me."_

_Regal uncoiled suddenly, furious himself and determined to put some space between them. He planted both hands in the middle of Ambrose's chest to give him a hard shove away._

_One of Ambrose's feet hit the car's rear tire and he fell backward, landing right on that injured shoulder._

_His pained cry on landing made Regal smile in vicious satisfaction.  
_

_Until he saw how badly Ambrose's uninjured hand shook as he dragged himself up to sitting; until he saw how Ambrose's face had gone as white as his shirt; until he saw how shocky-blank Ambrose's eyes suddenly were; until he saw the blood running down Ambrose's elbow - a thin, dark red line that shone in the light overhead.  
_

_The smirk curdled, and Regal suddenly felt sick all over._

What are you doing to me, lad?

_Ambrose eventually made it back to his feet - couldn't stay down to save his life - without any help, but stood pulled in on himself, body curled protectively around that arm and shoulder, trembling and clearly not well._

_Regal said, "I'm sorry. That - this is why we shouldn't…" He shook his head. "Are you all right?"_

"_Fine," Ambrose said tightly. The tremor was even in his voice. "I want that match. You owe me."_

"_I don't, actually," Regal said gently. "I don't owe you anything. Now go home, lad. Just leave this where it is."_

_Ambrose looked away and mumbled something about "home" under his breath, something all mushed together that not even Regal - king of the mutterers - could make out._

"_What was that?" he asked._

"_Never mind," Ambrose said, shaking his head. "I'll figure it out. I want that match."_

"_Good night," Regal said simply, turning to climb into his car._

_He glanced in his rearview mirror just once after he drove away. _

_Ambrose was standing in the same place, head down, good hand stuffed in his pocket - a lone figure in the middle of an empty ocean of a dark carpark._

_(Idon'tgotaridehome.)_

xXx

"I had the match won," were the first words out of Roman's mouth backstage. Low words, a rumble from deep in his chest. The knuckles around his vest's neckline were white. "I had it won, Ambrose. Why the hell did you do that? I could have ended it right then and there."

He'd pulled to an abrupt stop in the stubby little hallway just past Gorilla position, turning on his heel to stare Dean down.

Dean, red-faced and sweaty in his hoodie and leather jacket, lifted his chin. "All you were gonna do was win a match, Rome. That wouldn't have ended shit. You can't just win one fucking match and expect those fuckers to walk away. Doesn't work like that."

"Oh, so suddenly you're the big Wyatt expert, huh?"

"I think I got a better idea how Wyatt thinks than you do."

"Takes crazy to know crazy, I guess."

They were standing close enough together they'd have butted foreheads if either of them leaned forward.

And, fuck, they looked like they wanted to.

Seth took that as his cue to push between them, one palm on each of his teammates' chests, cutting Dean off in the middle of whatever he'd been saying. "Hey, hey, hey. Knock it off, guys. Calm down." He swore to God it felt as hot as a lava pit in the little gap he wedged himself into. "Don't start this shit, all right? Not now."

"I had the match won, Seth," Roman protested.

"_Maybe_." Seth realized his left hand was touching nothing but air, and looked around in time to see Dean slouch back against a wall. The big inside pocket of Dean's leather coat had flapped out during the scuffle; jerky hands tucked it into place. He wasn't looking at either Seth and Roman again, and Seth checked a sigh.

Some days it like trying to herd cats.

Roman retreated a step, too, arms folded over his chest as he gave Seth a narrow look. "What do you mean maybe?"

"I mean, yeah, you would've won the match, but, honestly, I think Dean's right - even if you'd beat him, it still wouldn't be over. It's not over. So we gotta take this back to the drawing board. Figure out a new strategy. You know? 'Cuz it's pretty obvious we can't do this one-on-one, right? Wyatt's gonna bring Dumb and Dumber no matter what he says, and we're at our best when it's the three of us working together _anyway_."

He looked at Dean and Roman in turn, daring either of them to contradict him.

Neither one said a word.

"So lemme think it over," he went on, charging straight into the tense silence like a bull going after a red cape. "We're gonna have to bring something big to the table to end this crap once and for all, so let me kick a few things around, and then we'll sit down together and hammer it out. All three of us. All right? And hey," he added, "look at the bright side, Rome: you had him beat, so you know you'd kick his ass in a fair fight. And Dean, man, seriously, you were fuckin' awesome out there. _And_ we took our damn yard back tonight. Didn't we? We won the night. So let just not fucking do this, okay? Just - let's get our shit and get on the road."

Roman lifted his chin. "I _would_ kick his ass in a fair fight."

"Abso-fuckin'-lutely," Seth said. "And everybody knows it. You're the man, Rome."

"So are you, baby." A small smile chased away some of the dark in his eyes. He unfolded his arms and reached over to hook one around Seth's shoulders. "The way you just kinda shot up out of nowhere, that was crazy. Human cannonball. I love it when you do that."

Seth relaxed against him. They were both sweat-damp, and Seth's skin was kind of crawling with the need for a shower, but he didn't let himself worry about that. The tension appeared to have broken a little - _enough_ - and when he tried on a smile of his own, it fit just fine. "Yeah, and how about Dean going all Hulk smash Harper? That was pretty badass, wasn't it?"

"Uh-huh," Roman said. His eyes never left Seth's. "We got this, right? The Wyatts. We got it."

"Of course we do," Seth assured him. He shook his hair out of his eyes and glanced over at Dean, who was watching them warily. The fingers of one hand were up near his shoulders again, drumming away. Always drumming or scratching because Dean was allergic to being still. "We got this, man."

"Yeah," was all Dean said. He pushed away from the wall and stepped around Seth and Roman. "All right. Well, I'm out. See you guys tomorrow."

Seth reached over and snagged hold of Dean's arm. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where you going?"

"I got a ride waitin," Dean drawled. He squinted at a point over Seth's shoulder. "My shit's already loaded up and I wanna get outta here, so…"

"Man, don't be like this," Seth said, tightening his grip. The leather creaked and crackled under his glove. "It's not that we don't trust you. We do. We just - we want to know exactly what went down. We're not accusing you of anything. It's just, you know, Regal being involved at all kind of sketches me out. I don't like it."

"Makes two of us," Roman put in. "What does he want?"

"Nothing," Dean said, tugging his arm free. "Not him we need to worry about, anyway. It's Wyatt. I don't know what the fuck he's doing, but he's up to something. Tryin' to push us apart or something. I don't know."

This time, Seth and Roman fell into step with him when he walked away. Seth shot Roman a quick frown. "Dude, we know Wyatt's fucking with us, okay? But we wanna talk about Regal. I don't care if you don't. We gotta know that him helping you out or whatever last night was just a one-time thing."

He had way too many bad memories of the ugly, obsessive mess Dean had been during his whole Regal phase - Dean stupid-drunk and screaming at the top of his lungs when Regal refused the match, Dean punching holes in the wall of his apartment, the way Dean pushed everyone away.

Including Seth, with whom he'd actually sparked something not all that long after the first Regal match.

Dean went well and truly off the deep end, and it was months after that second match before he was anything like himself again.

They rounded the corner that led to the main hall, and of course Regal was there - halfway down, leaning against the wall across from the locker room in his usual black suit.

Of fucking _course_ he was.

"What if it's not?" Dean asked suddenly. His eyes were on Regal.

Seth shrugged out of Roman's grip and stepped around to put himself between Dean and Regal. "What are you doing, Dean?" he demanded, voice pitched to stay in the small gap between them. "Huh? What the hell is this?"

"It's not what you think," Dean said, gaze flicking to Seth and over to Roman and back. "This ain't like it was. I'm not. He's not. I just - I dunno. Like, I feel like I need my own space lately. And I'm kinda gettin' the impression you guys want your space, too. Which, hey, if that's the case, then just fuckin' say so. I'm not gonna freak if you don't want me in your bed anymore. Not like I can't fill my own."

All too aware of who was standing behind them, Seth shook his head. There was time and place for this conversation, and this was definitely not it. "It's not like that, man. We just-"

"It is like that, Seth," Roman said over him. "It's exactly like that. Dean, we don't wanna hurt your feelings, man, and you know we love you like a brother, but Seth and I want to give this a real shot. We're crazy about each other. You know? We can't help it. I can't." A big hand found its way to Seth's elbow. "I love him, man. But as far as the _team_ goes, it's still us three. All equals."

Seth, caught between wanting to slug Roman and hug him, grabbed Dean's shoulder. "This team is still a fucking team. We're all equals, Dean. You understand that? This doesn't change anything. We train together, we ride together, we fight together. You got our backs, we got yours. Okay? All that changes is maybe we don't stay together anymore. Which - I know it sucks for you, and, like, I'm sorry about that. Maybe we can work something out with-"

"Don't worry about it," Dean cut him off. He'd gone pretty tight, but he didn't look very surprised. "I'll figure something out. Okay? It's fine. I told you, I could tell. It's cool. You guys know I'm not into the whole, y'know, hearts and flowers shit anyway, so – yeah. Whatever. So…" He cleared his throat. "We good?"

Roman said, "Depends on you, Ambrose. Are _you_ good? No problems with this?"

"Nope," Dean said. He even smiled. It a fragile little thing, looked brittle and ready to collapse at any second, but Seth guessed it was better than nothing. "It's all good guys. I'm cool."

"Good," Roman said, smiling himself. "Like Seth said, it's-"

"Don't, Rome," Dean said. "I don't - just...don't. It's fine. But, yeah, I'm gonna get outta here."

"Ride with us," Seth said. He squeezed Dean's shoulder. "Come on. You got a better feel for how Wyatt thinks than I do. Help me figure this shit out."

But Dean shook his head. "We can do that tomorrow. Meet up for breakfast or something. But right now, I just kinda wanna have my own space, like I said. You know? Not think about this shit."

"Then we don't talk," Seth said, shrugging, He dropped his hand. "I just - I don't want you around him. Seriously. People don't change, okay? They don't. _He_ doesn't. He fucked you up last time and it was _months_ before I got you back. I don't wanna go through that again."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You won't, Seth. Jesus, chill out. I'm not going back to that. You got nothin' to worry about. So don't. Just watch out for Wyatts, all right? Watch your backs. See you tomorrow."

With that, he squeezed between Seth and the wall, and walked over and then past Regal, who turned to shoot Seth and Roman a nasty little smirk before he headed off to catch up with Dean.

"I fucking hate that guy," Seth said shakily. His stomach was in a fucking _knot_ all of a sudden, and he wished to God Wyatt or somebody would have walked around the corner right about then because it would have given him somebody to take his frustrations out on. "I really fucking hate that guy."

Roman's arm sneaked around his shoulders again. "I do, too, but what can you do? We can talk 'til we're blue in the face, but Dean's going to do what he's going to do. You know it and I know it."

"I just - this fucking Regal thing, man…"

"I know, Seth," Roman said. "I was there. I remember. We won't let it get that far."

"How are we gonna stop it?" Seth asked, looking bleakly up at the empty hall. "We just told him we wanted him out. We just told him don't want him to stay with us anymore, and he ran straight to Regal. Dude, we just fucking _pushed_ him that way. God _dammit_. Why did you have to say that? I told you I wanted to wait."

He could _hear_ Roman's teeth grinding together. "He's not stupid. He knows the score. I didn't see any point lying to him about it. So don't get mad at me. Just how it shook out. But if it helps, fine. I'm sorry I didn't stick to the plan. Okay?" He pushed some of the sweat-matted blond hair off Seth's forehead and dropped a kiss across Seth's temple. "I love you."

"Dammit, Rome," Seth grumbled. "I'm trying to be mad here. Quit being all logical and, like, romantic and shit. I hate it when you do that."

"Gets your motor going, doesn't it?"

"It's distracting."

"Maybe you need distracted."

"It's not enough of a distraction."

"Big shower in the locker room," Roman said, nosing Seth's cheek like a playful puppy, "and I think most everyone's cleared out by now. Might help with some of this tension. Put you in a better state of mind so we can talk all this stuff out tonight. Or you can talk and I can listen. Whatever you need. Okay? You got me. You get that? You got me, and we will figure this out. We'll fix it. So. Uh. Is that enough?"

Seth touched his forehead to Roman's. "Fuck you," he mumbled, snickering. "Sayin' all that shit just so you can get in my pants. I see how you are."

Roman's chuckle vibrated through Seth's chest. "Oh, come on. You gotta admit that was pretty good, even for me."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fucker." But he slid his own arms around Roman's back. His anchor while everything felt like it was blowing the fuck apart around him. "Love you too. Now come on. Let's go test out that shower."

xXx

Luke Harper wasn't much of a praying man, but as he knelt in the dirt on some lonely side-road in the middle of a frigid night, he found himself praying to anyone who'd listen that he'd survive.

Bray paced back and forth in front of Luke and Erick like a starving tiger. He hadn't even bothered to put his back on, so his hair was flying wild all over the place.

He hadn't said a single word since Ambrose showed up, either, and that was the scariest part of all.

But now he did. "She's angry," he said, fists at his temples. "She's cryin. Heart's just broken. I can feel her. How did he get away, boys? How did her little rabbit escape our snare?"

"Maybe…" Luke swallowed. He shifted to get a rock out from under his kneecap. "Maybe the rope got loose."

"Mayhap," Bray said, gravel crunching under his feet as he paced. "But you've never had one get out of that before. Those knots were tight. I saw myself."

"Somebody could have seen," Erick put in, his voice muffled behind his cracked sheep's mask. "There were people in the hall."

Bray jerked to a stop so suddenly that both Luke and Erick flinched away. "Who?" he demanded, pushing right up against Erick's mask. "Who saw?"

Erick stammered out a few names, hesitated, and then added, "But I didn't see nobody follow me out. Swear to it. I's watchin."

"I'm sure you were," Bray said, straightening away. "Cowards and narcissists, all of them. I doubt any of them ever look beyond the edges of their own shadows." He resumed his pacing. "They're all cowards. From John Cena all the way down, they're liars and thieves and ignorant hypocrites - pigs content to live in their own filth. We'll lead them all out of the dark, just like I led you two, but first, we've got to do this one thing for Abigail. She's asked us for so little and given us so much. We have to get him for her.

"And we will, boys, we will. Him for her, and the others for you. Tomorrow. Tomorrow - ashes, ashes, it all falls down. _He's got the whole world, in his hands…_"

Bray looked up at the sky as he sang, and for the first time in his life, Luke found himself shivering in a way he was pretty sure had nothing to do with the cold.

xXx

On the way out the door, Ambrose had turned and said, "You care if I ride with you?"

Startled, but inwardly pleased, Regal had said, "Not at all. But weren't you going to-"

"I don't wanna talk about it," Ambrose had said over him. He'd pulled his coat tight around him, shoulders bunched up against the cold. "I don't wanna talk about anything."

"Fair enough," Regal had said.

There was not another word spoken between them for the duration of the ride. Ambrose sat awake, staring moodily out at the passing late night traffic, while Regal simply drove and left him alone to his sulk.

The radio provided passable enough company, in any case, as it always did, and kept the silence from feeling terribly leaden.

He spent his time mulling over the possibilities for revenge on the Wyatts, what it was Rollins and Reigns had said to Ambrose to make him walk away from them, his new role with the WWE, mind drifting easily from one thing to the next and back again in a slow cycle that he found damned relaxing - despite some of the darker things he was thinking about Wyatt.

Wyatt's sudden interest in Ambrose was troubling, and as reluctant as Regal still found himself to become involved, he was still glad he'd gone looking when he had. The thought of what Wyatt and company would be doing to him right now honestly made Regal's stomach turn - enough he made himself move on to avenues of thought that weren't apt to make him angry enough to throttle the steering wheel.

And if he glanced to his right a couple times, well, it was just to see if Ambrose had fallen asleep.

Certainly wasn't to reassure himself.

The miles passed agreeably enough, and before he knew it, bright city lights beat back some of the dark around them, and the signs telling him they were nearing Milwaukee began appearing at regular intervals.

He broked the silence, finally, by asking Ambrose where he was booked to stay.

"Wherever you are, I guess," Ambrose said, shrugging. And then frowned, as if it occurred to him what he'd just said. "I's supposed to stay with Seth and Roman, but that's not a thing anymore, so I gotta get a room somewhere else. So wherever you're staying's fine. Easier that way."

"That it is," Regal said. He didn't ask any of the dozen or so questions he wanted to ask. Instead, he offered, "Of course, if you wanted to save your money, I think I've got a double again. It wouldn't be any trouble."

"'Kay," Ambrose said. "Yeah, I don't know. But, uh. You know. Thanks."

"Sure," Regal replied. "And for whatever it's worth, I am sorry about that bit in the locker room this afternoon. I wasn't trying to cause any friction."

Ambrose sighed, a sound like the long hiss of a flame along a gunpowder trail. "Bullshit you weren't. It's you, Regal. When do you _not_ cause friction?"

"When I'm asleep," Regal said. "That's probably the only time. Incidentally, hello, pot. I'm kettle."

That at least earned him a snort. "You probably still manage piss people off in your dreams. Or, you know, you manage to, like, infiltrate other people's and piss 'em off there."

Regal chuckled. "I don't doubt it a bit. Nor, I should add, would I be surprised to discover the same for you."

"Yeah, me neither."

He didn't seem inclined to say anything else, and Regal left him alone again as he concentrated on not getting them lost.

Things stayed quiet as Regal checked them in, and as they carried their things up to the room, and as Ambrose disappeared to have a shower. Regal got changed himself for bed, fatigue settling in like a heavy fog just as he pulled the duvet cover back and got himself comfortable.

He tucked his hand under his head and just watched as Ambrose exited the bathroom, dressed now just in a pair of shorts. The livid marks on his neck appeared to have faded a bit, but he appeared to have acquired a fist-sized bruise on his right side, just below his ribcage.

_Bloody Wyatts_.

Ambrose got himself arranged in his bed and turned on the television, turning the volume low enough it didn't keep Regal from drifting off to sleep.

Once again, though, he didn't stay that way long, because he blinked himself awake when he felt his bed shift.

Just enough light drifted in through a gap in the curtains he could see Ambrose sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Regal, hunched forward, head down with elbows on his thighs and arms crossed over his stomach. His fingers tapped a rhythm like an erratic heartbeat against his arm.

"Hey," Regal murmured.

Ambrose's head whipped around. "Huh?"

Regal shifted over a bit to make room, then pulled the duvet cover back. "Come here."

Probably a bad idea, this, but he was honestly too damned tired to care.

There wasn't enough light to see Ambrose's expression, but eventually, Ambrose shifted around and slid in under the covers. He wound up lying on his back, but pulled close to the edge where he'd sat, leaving a noticeable gap between them.

Regal didn't say anything, just looked across his pillow at the dark shape next to him, and waited, figuring if Ambrose had something to say, he'd say it.

After a long stretch of quiet, Ambrose said, "What the fuck was he gonna do to me? Wyatt? Why does he keep…?" His voice had taken on that ten-cigarettes-too-many rasp, the words rough at the edges. "What he does he want?"

"I don't know," Regal admitted. He turned to his side and moved a bit closer, enough he could comfortably reach across the blanket and settle a hand on Ambrose's blanket-covered chest. "I don't quite understand why drives a man like Wyatt myself, honestly. But, lad, don't dwell on that - on what he would have done. There's no point. It didn't happen. Nothing happened. You're safe."

He wasn't sure which of them he was trying to reassure at that point.

"Pretty sure I pissed him off today," Ambrose said quietly. "His neck. Maybe that had something to do with it."

"Possibly," Regal allowed. "That _was_ you. I thought so."

"Yeah. I - for what he did. You know? I just wanted to, like, to show him I got bite, too."

"From what I hear, you nearly ripped his throat out." Regal's hand drew absent circles across the blanket. "I wouldn't have blamed you. Don't think anyone would've. Wish I would've been there to see it."

"...yeah," Ambrose murmured vaguely. "I don't think he's gonna stop."

"I think you're right," Regal admitted. "Whether it's you or your team, seems he's after something. Don't wander off alone, lad. Stick by your team or stay in areas where you've got people around. The more the better. I doubt very much he wants witnesses."

"He doesn't," Ambrose said through a yawn.

Regal yawned himself. "You need to be careful. I know that word doesn't exist in your vocabulary, but until this is over, you need to be. Don't let yourself get caught out alone. All right?"

Seemed fairly important he got that point across.

He'd make it a hundred times if he had to - make a sign and hang it around the damnfool boy's neck, if that was what it took.

"Yeah," Ambrose said, "all right. Okay. Okay."

"All right," Regal said. "Now get some sleep, lad."

He patted Ambrose's chest and started to pull his hand back, but one of Ambrose's slipped out from under the blanket and caught hold of his wrist, keeping it in place on his chest. His grip was tight, but not painfully so; his thumb ran back and forth just above Regal's wrist, a small, light bit of movement.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was their breathing - Ambrose's heavy and slow, and Regal's quiet and even.

He braced himself for those four damned words he knew were coming, the word 'no,' already shaping itself in his mouth.

But Ambrose squeezed his wrist once, lightly, and then let go, mumbling, "G'night." He pulled his hand back under the blankets, squirmed about a bit, and then settled in with a sigh.

Regal shook his head and murmured, "Good night," as he made himself comfortable again.

Fortunately, the bed was large enough not to feel crowded.

If someone had told him eighteen months ago ago he'd wind up sharing a bed with the man hellbent on ending his career, he would've laughed.

Or, honestly, if someone had said that just the day before yesterday.

And yet here he was, and it was actually-

It wasn't so-

Well.

His life just ridiculous sometimes, that was all.

xXx

Ambrose was still Ambrose, though, and, sometime after dawn, Regal slipped back into bed after a quick trip to the toilet to find half-lidded blue eyes watching him from across the bed. Ambrose was on his side, knees drawn up.

One of Ambrose's hands wandered out from under the blankets and made its way across the gap, back of his fingers ghosting lines along Regal's forearm from wrist to elbow.

This time, though, Ambrose didn't say anything.

Didn't need to: the light scratch of his fingernails and the heat in his eyes were saying plenty.

Regal waited for the 'no' - that heavy oak door - to slam into place, the word to shape itself like a dagger in his mouth, that impulse to _push away_ rather than _pull in_ to kick in and derail him.

All he felt was warmth pooling low in his belly, desire slow-curling up his spine like smoke.

Maybe, he thought, maybe not hearing the words for once made a difference.

Or maybe he was just tired of fighting himself over something he didn't have to.

Or maybe…

Or maybe…

Maybe it didn't even matter.

He sat partway up, giving himself just enough room to strip off his shirt, eyes never leaving Ambrose's - wanting to savor the startled hitch of eyebrows, the surprised twitch of a smile.

Telling everything in his brain moaning this was a bad idea to bugger off, Regal moved to straddle Ambrose's hips.

He leaned over, not to kiss Ambrose - not yet - but to breathe four words of his own into Ambrose's ear.

"I want you, too."

He felt the wicked curve of a smile like a knife's blade against his neck, and knew, oh he knew, he was in trouble.

But as he moved in for the kiss - for the kill - he couldn't have cared less.

xXx

_November 2011  
A month or so after the match with Ambrose, Regal found himself - unsurprisingly - the last one out of the arena. He'd gotten a bit lost in thinking about the upcoming traveling he'd be doing in the next couple of weeks, and time had rather slipped away from him._

_As he made his way across the dark carpark, he saw his wasn't the only car left._

_Rollins' ugly little blue thing was still there, parked next to one of the light posts._

_But what nearly drew Regal short was the fact Rollins was pressed up against it, either being mauled or rather thoroughly kissed by Dean bloody Ambrose._

_Regal was just close enough he heard Rollins' choked-off moan, and guessed it was the latter._

_Made his stomach twist - _just distaste, he told himself, only that _- and he couldn't quite keep himself from calling over, "Good night, lads."_

_Rollins jumped a foot in the air and shoved Ambrose back. "Uh…"_

_Ambrose, meanwhile, merely turned and shot Regal a sharp little smile, like he'd known Regal was there._

_Probably had; honestly, Regal wouldn't have put it past him to do this deliberately._

"_I want my rematch, Regal," he said, swiping his lower lip._

_Regal kept right on walking._

"_Don't be a pussy, Regal!" Ambrose called after him. "Fuckin' fight me."_

_Once again, Regal said nothing._

_As he drove off, he risked a look in his rearview and saw Rollins was backed up against his car again and Ambrose had gone down to his knees in front of him._

_Regal doubted very much he was praying._

_When he got home that night, Regal began preparing mentally himself for the war he knew was coming._

A/N: Thanks for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thank you for all the kind reviews, and, as ever, to those of you who've been reading this. Something of an interlude, I suppose you'd say. It's a little stream-of-conscious and rambly. Blame Dean. I just wanted to write straight-up smut. He had other ideas. Jerk. We'll call this the calm before the storm. Enjoy.

**V. Inside-Out**

_What. The fuck. Is _wrong _with you_?

Where Regal was concerned, it was a question Dean had been asking himself since, like, day fucking _one_.

Like, he always fucking _hated_ the way his - _fuckin' slut_ - mother threw herself at guys, desperate to hold onto the assholes who pimped her out and beat her and just out-and-out used her because she'd take being treated like garbage over being alone.

He _hated_ her for that.

Most especially he hated the way she kept running after the guys who didn't want her.

In his less guarded moments (mostly when he was drunk), Dean could see similarities and he hated that, too.

Even down to that sick fuckin' thing he sometimes heard _her_ say: "He wants me. I know he does."

But Dean couldn't get away from it.

Regal was just a fucking fishhook in Dean's brain, and had been from the start - something that just lodged in and wouldn't fucking let go.

Kept reeling him in just when he thought he'd gotten past it.

And it was fucking stupid.

Okay, at first, it was kinda funny - hilarious, actually - how Regal seemed to blow his load every time Dean came out to wrestle, and how Regal got off on the fucked up shit Dean said or did.

Dean kinda _liked_ that.

Most people tended to look at him like Dusty Rhodes did: mingled distrust and dislike and kind of grudging respect.

Not Regal, though; guy always half looked like he wanted to jump in and join the fun, the so-called villain in him itching for a chance to get out and be bad again.

And, yeah, there was the other half, that looked and sounded like it just wanted to jump Dean period.

Either of which Dean was cool with, because, hey, why not, right?

But instead of just fucking doing it, the asshole had to get weird about it and start with all the mind-fucking and acting like he suddenly _didn't_ approve - bull fucking _shit_, if Dean ever saw it - and that was when Regal became this bad fucking song Dean absolutely could not get out of his head no matter what he did.

That fucking fishhook set deep, reeling and reeling.

Because they were the fucking _same_ in some ways - not every way, but in a lot of ways Dean had never really had in common with many people, like how they both kinda got off on twisting people around - and they wanted the same fucking _thing_ and...and...

If...

If...

And, yeah, yeah, okay, Dean felt a little fucking disgusted with himself - _The fucking fuck is wrong with you, throwing yourself at the guy like some slut? - _sometimes down in Florida because he didn't fucking _need_ people the way his fucking slut mother did, but Regal fucking _wanted_ him, right? Didn't he? They had something, didn't they? Like Regal had something Dean wanted - needed? - and _why_ did Regal have to be such a fucking dick about it?

Why did he have to make Dean feel like-

_I'm not._

_I'm not, dammit. He wants me, I know he does._

_(What. The fuck. Is _wrong _with you?)_

Regal fucking wanted him and maybe, yeah - no, _definitely_ - Dean just wanted to hear the asshole admit it, just once, just fucking come out and admit that yes, yes, he did fucking _too _want it.

That he saw the same fucking thing Dean did.

Sick fucking obsession, and he knew it, but it was a stuck fucking fishhook and it _mattered_.

No matter how much he tried to tell himself otherwise, even after he tried to fucking get away from it by losing himself in Seth and something that was weirdly almost like normal, it still fucking mattered.

Because even when Regal was backing away from him, there was still something in his eyes that said he fucking _got it_, got what it was like when you were trying to be less fucked up than you were even though you knew deep down at some point you _were_ going to fuck up because something in you wouldn't just bow down and accept anything like normal and nice - _boring_ - for long.

The urge to get in there and tear shit apart and cause havoc and be hated was just too fucking strong sometimes.

For Dean, at least.

Because it was easier and more fun and who the fuck needed normal, anyway, right?

Normal was for guys like Seth and Roman, guys who, even if they had some edges like Seth's painslut exhibitonist self sometimes did, could get along and be happy being liked and not have those urged to just fuck shit up and not have to feel like they were just waiting for the fucking guillotine blade to drop and be-fucking-head whatever illusions they'd managed to build for themselves about how maybe - just maybe - _maybe_ they weren't as fucked up as they thought they were; maybe they didn't need to fight all the time; and maybe_, _just _maybe_, a guy like Seth saw something in them that not even Regal did.

It was for guys who gave a shit about about things like love and that kinda heartsy-fartsy shit that _didn't_ leave 'em feeling like something had been rip-

No, no.

_No._

_It's fucking fine._

_You knew. You knew it was coming._

Because normal and not-normal could only play together for so long in the sandbox before shit went sideways. He knew that. He'd always known it was coming. Like oil and water, and he knew - he fucking _knew_ - because even if Roman pretended like he wanted both Seth _and_ Dean, he'd only ever really wanted Seth. Like he put up with Dean out of respect for what Seth wanted, but yeah, old Rome was definitely just biding his fucking time.

Which that - no, nope. Nope.

Didn't even matter anyway - not a bit 'cuz Dean only ever cared about getting his rocks off, anyway.

Just that.

So what if he never fucked around on Seth - or Seth and Roman? He totally could've. Just - why would he when they were right fucking _there _and Seth especially was already ready to go? He wasn't, like, _trying_ to be good like that; it just kinda worked out that way.

Not that it really counted for anything.

Not that it-

It _didn't _matter.

Who fucking cared?

Over and fucking done.

And that was maybe the biggest difference between him and his mother: he _wouldn't_ fucking beg those two for another chance.

Over and done and back to banging sluts, and he was _fine_ with that - totally.

Besides which, even in the middle of all that, even when he was having fun with Seth (and Roman, sometimes, 'cuz he could be fun when he wasn't being, like, fucking territorial about Seth), that fucking fishhook was still fucking there.

Regal.

Even after the dust had settled, even with Seth and Roman there to kinda fill up the void spot where all that so-called obsession or whatever used to live, that goddamn fishhook still - _still_ - had Dean reeling around to look at the guy backstage every fucking time.

Always brought the old shit back, too - the shit he swore to Christ he was done thinking about.

But.

_Buuuut:_

Regal never fucking said it.

Never fucking owned up to fucking _anything_ about _anything_ where Dean was concerned.

And even though Dean beat him in their match - and he had, no matter what the official decision was - there was that fucking little fact and the other fact Dean still, after fucking everything, not only wanted to hear the bastard admit it, but still fucking wanted it himself - _What the fuck is wrong with you? - _which...

But he didn't fucking _say_ it this time, was the thing.

Okay, in the first place, it was weird as _fuck_, waking up in Regal's bed, especially now, after all the shit they'd put each other through, and, like, _yeah_, Dean was super glad Regal had been asleep when Dean woke up because how fucking awkward would it have been to get caught, like, half _laying_ on Regal like he had been?

Must've moved in his sleep or something 'cuz he sure as fuck hadn't been that close when he'd fallen asleep.

But there'd been a bad dream or two in there - _fucking Wyatt_ - or something.

Like the one that fucking woke him up in the first place, which-

_Fuck fucking Wyatt in his fucking ass. See how he fuckin' likes it.  
_

By the time Regal got up, Dean had moved back over to his own side of the bed.

Tired of chasing his thoughts in fucking circles - tended be a thing when he didn't drink the night before - Dean had opened his eyes so Regal'd be able to see he was awake.

It was still pretty early, but the sun was up now.

He waited.

When Regal got back into bed, Dean just - he reached over.

Last night, he'd been too fucking exhausted and sore after the near-miss with Wyatt and...all that other shit to want to put up with another rejection, but it was a new day now, right?

No time like the fucking present to get the door slammed in his face again.

Why fucking _not_?

What was left to lose at this point?

Regal in the morning was a puffy-eyed, bed-headed shadow of his normally well-dressed self, especially wearing a baggy old blue tee shirt and shorts and with a bright red blanket seam across his cheek, but even with Regal like half asleep, the way he looked at Dean made him feel he was a frog pinned to a dissecting tray.

_You don't fucking know me_, part of him wanted to snap, just as the rest of him was thinking, _You still fucking want me and you fucking know it._

But he didn't say it this time.

He just dragged the backs of his ragged, bitten fingernails along Regal's forearm - slowly, not hard enough to scratch, but not _soft_.

Just, like, enough to get Regal's attention.

And he waited.

It was quiet for a while, real quiet, and too warm under the covers, but Dean stayed put - kept his hand moving.

That fucking fishhook again, and, yep, fucking thing had him reeled all the way in again.

He waited for the 'no' to drop like a wall between them, for Regal's expression - really fucking thoughtful all of a sudden - to close down, for Regal to push his hand away.

Because he _would_.

He always _did_.

Even though-

The mattress dipped suddenly as Regal sat up, springs squeaking quietly under him, and reached down to-

..._huh._

Regal's shirt hit the floor somewhere, but Dean was too busy being surprised by the implications or whatever of Regal actually taking the fucking shirt off in the first place to really pay attention to where.

'Cuz, yeah, shirt _off _- just like Dean, who'd never put one on for bed in the first place.

Regal flicked his hair off his face and tossed the blanket back off him, and then moved across the bed to straddle Dean's hips, effectively pinning Dean down.

Dean swallowed. Licked his lips. Smiled, just a little, even though throat felt fucking dry as a bone.

He could feel his pulse pounding all the way down in his fucking fingertips as Regal looked down at him.

This - okay, this didn't really seem very much like 'no.'

In fact it looked like kind of the opposite of 'no,' and Dean...

...really didn't know what he thought about that.

No fucking clue what Regal was thinking - not that was a huge surprise - until he leaned over, hands going to Dean's shoulders, mouth hovering an inch from Dean's ear.

"I want you, too," Regal said.

But of course he didn't give Dean much of a chance to savor _that _fucking victory, because Dean'd no more than started to smile when Regal kissed him, hard and fast.

Like he was trying to wipe the smirk off Dean's face or something.

Probably was.

It was a bad angle at first and they managed to clack teeth, but one of them - Regal, probably - moved and things lined up and, yeah, oh yeah, yeah, it was happening.

Regal's hands settled on Dean's shoulders.

Dean's own hands wandered away and he kinda lost track of them but he completely didn't care because, well, _kissing_, and, like, yeah, they both fucking knew what they were doing on _that_ score, and then Regal fucking _moved_, and there was some really good friction on Dean's dick, which was still trapped inside his shorts, and Dean might've made some kind of sound that was, like, _totally_ just a choked-off "_fuck_" and _so_ not like a moan or anything.

Regal laughed quietly against Dean's mouth and pulled back enough to murmur, "Really _are_ an eager young thing, aren't you?"

Which hit Dean just the wrong way - _I'm not, dammit; I'm not_ - for some reason, and he fucking _tensed_, pulling away as much as he could given he was on his back with Regal pretty much pinning him down, reaching up to plant both hands in the middle of Regal's chest.

Without missing a fucking beat, Regal sat up and grabbed hold of both of Dean's wrists, tightly. Before Dean could even think about yanking himself free, his hands were fucking trapped on either side of his head - right on the pillow. Regal leaned forward over them, pushing down enough to keep them from moving.

He was a big dude, Regal - a little taller and broader and a fair bit heavier than Dean - but this was the first time Dean actually, like, _felt_ that.

During their matches, He'd been too busy trying to fight his way out of those hugely painful holds to notice, but he sure did now.

If Dean'd fought back he probably could've gotten out, but, like, all the blood kinda seemed to rush out of his head all at once. Made him feel almost dizzy, like something fucking short-circuited in his brain.

But his dick, Jesus fuck, man, that thing jumped, and he shifted to get away, or at least to kinda hide that little development, because holy fuck _no_.

No way.

"Let go," he said.

"No," Regal said sharply. His face hovered above Dean's like some huge runaway moon, one with deep frown-lines carved into it. "Hold bloody _still_."

Dean stopped moving, all at once, just fucking _froze_ either because of the words or the tone or...or...

Regal squeezed a little harder. Bone ground on bone, and Dean gasped because even though it fucking hurt, it made his fucking dick jump again.

He swore to God he saw Regal smile, but Regal sounded serious when he said, "You weren't wrong, you know. We want the same thing. We might not agree how to get there, but we'll manage. But _we want the same thing_. D'you remember that?"

_We want the same fuckin' thing!_

But this?

This was…this…was...wasn't...

Fuck, it was hard to think like this when all he really had in his head was how, like, good it felt having Regal kinda moving on him again right now, even with his wrists kind of hurting-

_Oh._

Right. So - yeah. Okay. They did, didn't they?

Words weren't a thing he felt capable of making, so he just nodded.

"D'you want this, then, or not?" Regal asked.

Dean nodded again.

_This. Yes. More._

"Then relax," Regal said. There was audible strain in his voice. Tendons stood out on both wrists. "Feel free to have any laugh at my expense you like. I'm sure you'll want to - a wee bit of one." He let go with one hand free and held his forefinger and thumb up about about an inch apart. "A very small laugh. D'you see?"

Snorting, Dean nodded once more.

Regal clamped down on Dean's wrist again. This time Dean had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep quiet, and _shit_ he needed Regal to fucking _move_ or something, but Regal just grinned and Dean really wanted to punch him in the face for that, for being such a smug fucking prick, but…

...but his hands were kinda tied - which, it was kinda weird how it didn't bother him, considering-

_No, no, oh fuck no. Don't. Not now._

It didn't bother him _now_, was the thing, and-

_Fuck it_.

"So you gonna, like, just sit there or what?" he finally managed. He sounded croaky and rough, like he'd smoked a few too many cigarettes, but it was better than laying there nodding. "Mean, like, it's cool and all to hear you tell me I was right - which I fuckin' knew all along, by the way - but, like, y'know, you _could_ start, like, makin' little jokes with that little- mmph."

Regal'd shut him up by kissing him again, somehow managing to do it while still pinning Dean's wrists down.

And they both kinda laughed, Dean feeling weirdly relieved and suddenly kinda wild like something had just fucking let go in his head, and Regal just laughing because he was Regal and Regal was an asshole.

After that, everything just kinda fucking melted away into a meaningless smear of background static - Seth, Roman, Wyatt, _everything_, all of it just _quiet_ for a change - and that was probably the best fucking part of all.

xXx

First time in his life he'd ever willingly let somebody fuck him.

Not that he _said_ that, of course, because it really didn't matter.

But there was that.

He'd been close to doing it - right on the verge of telling Roman to do it more times than he could count - but never could bring himself to spit the words out, not even drunk, not the way he always could to Regal stone fucking sober.

Now, now it was Dean on his back with his knees wide and bent up against his chest, hands together and pinned down over his head at the wrist by one of Regal's. Regal's other hand was down on Dean's cock, working it over in earnest - not fucking around with him the way he had been for, like, at least half an hour.

Now it was Regal's not-so-small laugh buried in all the way - _balls fuckin' deep_, Seth would say - and Dean feeling stretched and fucking _full_.

Enough of both he was kinda glad Regal wasn't moving yet.

Regal'd spent what felt like a fucking week driving Dean absolutely nuts with just a couple fingers and a too-loose hand - which, in fairness, Dean probably had coming, considering he'd spent a good bit of time working Regal into a lather with the same slow-and-sloppy-as-fuck kind of blowjob he'd give Seth and Roman when he felt like winding them up.

Eventually, Regal'd pushed him off, gently, and panted, "Should've known you'd be good at that. That wicked mouth of yours…"

Dean had smirked as he'd wiped the snotty spit off his chin. "Told you two fuckin' years ago all you had to do was make a move."

"Oh, hush, you rotten bastard," Regal'd said lazily. His eyes were half-lidded, glazed over, and kind of hard to get a read on. Did kinda smile, though, as Dean moved over. "Effective way to stop you talking, at least. I'll have to keep that in mind. Now lie back and let's finish this properly, shall we?"

Which led them to this point, where Dean was completely fucking trapped - bent in fucking _half_ (which made the bruise on his side kind of throb, but he ignored that), pinned down, and being fucking smashed into the bed - and absolutely not giving a shit because then Regal _moved _and it was too fucking much and not enough and he didn't even fucking know what to focus on: the smooth slide of Regal's cock, the tight-slick heat of Regal's hand around his own dick, or the pressure of everything holding him down.

At some point, he just closed his eyes and gave up.

Just flat fucking quit trying to make sense of it all and quit trying to pretend he didn't want it like this and quit trying to be fucking quiet about it.

Let it all go.

It was good, was what it was.

It _felt_ good.

Really, really fucking good.

He came - _finally_ - with his teeth grit tight against a string of f-bombs and what kind of like a bomb going off in his nuts right about the time Regal let go of Dean's hands and shifted to start pounding into him in earnest, the flat slap of skin on skin and the creak of the mattress and the near teeth-rattling rocking reaching a ridiculous fucking fever pitch there at the end.

About all Dean could do was, like, ride it out.

Didn't take long, though.

Regal came with his face buried against the side of Dean's neck, a sound that was mostly vowels muffled there.

For a few seconds, they kind of stayed like that, both of them sweating like hell and reeking like sex and sticky with Dean's come smeared between them and breathing like they'd run a fucking marathon.

Considering how long they'd been dancing around this shit, kinda felt like they _had_.

He swore to God he had a whole hive of bees buzzing under his skin - just this weird head-to-toe buzzy-tingly shit going on, which was as weird as it was good, and-

Yeah.

That.

_Good_.

Wrecked as he felt, Dean didn't have the energy to do much more than let his legs flop back out straight as Regal slid himself out and slumped off to one side and went, like, into an almost fetal position - looking every bit as fucking wrecked.

Which was a _way_ more satisfying feeling than it should've been, probably.

Dean was maybe kind of an asshole, too, so yeah, maybe he laughed as he threw an arm over his eyes.

"What?" Regal slurred at him.

"Told you I'd blow your mind."

Regal reached over and twisted one of Dean's nipples hard enough to make Dean yelp. "Brat."

"C'mon, Regal," Dean wheeled, slapping the hand away. "Say it. Say I was right."

"Such a bloody _child_," Regal muttered. He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. "I never said you were wrong about that in the first place. But if it'll shut you up, then yes, you were right." One hand stole out and traced around the edge of some of the come on Dean's stomach. "Made a right mess of you, didn't we?"

"Good kind of mess, though," Dean said through a yawn.

"Mm-hmm." Regal raised himself up on an elbow and bent down to kiss Dean again, slow and lazy, and, like, _different_ from how it had been earlier - softer and no tongues or anything, just an easy kiss. The hand that had been down on Dean's stomach wandered up to his cheek and Dean heard the quiet rasp of fingertips on stubble, a touch as light as the kiss.

It was - it - yeah, it was good, but it almost felt like too much.

This slow and easy shit, it was what Seth and Roman liked, but it always made Dean feel weird as fuck - all flipped inside-out and shit and fucking squirmy and like he just wanted to get away and put some space between him and them 'cuz it was just too fucking much and he didn't want it - not _that_.

He didn't.

This was that times, like, ten, which - no, no, no, _fuck_ no.

Not Regal.

Fishhook was deep enough as it was without adding _that_ fucking barb.

But Dean didn't want to be an asshole and, like, ruin what had been a pretty good morning so far (fucking shit, he'd finally got Regal to admit he wanted this _and_ they'd fucking done it - how crazy was _that_?), so he, like, just waited it out, moving with Regal but not, like, trying to encourage him or anything.

Regal finally moved off and stretched out on his back.

Dean sat up, mumbling, "I'm gonna go, uh, clean up. Go hit the gym for a while."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Regal give him an odd look - frowning and shit, but all Regal said was, "Wouldn't have thought you'd need a workout after that, but off you go then."

"Huh, yeah," Dean said, standing.

Didn't disagree with that 'cuz a shower and a nap would've been nice, but a trip down to the gym would at least give him a chance to, like, get out of the fuckin' flippy-weird-buzzy place his head was in right now.

_What the fuck is wrong with you?_

xXx

As he stood under the shower's hot spray washing his own come off his chest, Dean just shook his head.

Despite all the gunk in his head, he felt like he'd just…

Yeah, like he'd just gotten fucking laid.

_Ha_.

Which, hey big shocker - he'd fucking told Regal it'd be good - but, yeah, it was good enough the part of him that wasn't cringing away from what just happened was already demanding another go 'round, and he swiped the soap bar across his chest, annoyed, because he'd half-hoped that once sex _did_ happen all this would be out of his system.

What a fuckin' joke.

_Ha fucking ha_.

Like some fucking little kid running around screaming, "Again! Again!" after he'd gotten to ride a big kid's ride for the first time, and, yeah: _What the fuck, man? What is _wrong _with you?_

He couldn't decide which one would be worse:

If Regal didn't want to do it again.

Or if he did.

xXx

The workout mellowed him out.

By the time he finished that, and had another shower and a shave, it was about time to leave.

When Dean walked out of the bathroom fully dressed in a plain black tee shirt and jeans, Regal looked over from the bed, where he'd been laying back while he watched TV. Once again, Dean had no idea what Regal was thinking, but man, those eyes were fucking _sharp_ - clear and pale like fucking scalpel blades, and Dean couldn't shake that frog-on-a-dissecting-tray feeling for the life of him.

He had to look away.

"When d'you fly out?" Regal asked.

Dean squatted down over his suitcase and shoved shit around inside it, mostly to give his hands something to do. "Uh, tomorrow," he said, giving himself a quick mental shake. "Like eight, I think."

They had _SmackDown _tonight, and then a couple days off - Dean flying back to Vegas, and Regal flying off to wherever the fuck he went when he wasn't with the main roster.

"My flight's at seven tomorrow," Regal finally said. "I've, ah, I've got the room for tonight, too. If you wanted to stay again, you could leave your things here."

Dean glanced over, hands freezing in the act of moving some shirts around.

"If you wanted," Regal reiterated, meeting and holding Dean's gaze.

That didn't sound like a 'no,' either - not that Dean had even asked the question.

Sounded a lot like an invitation, actually.

Maybe he should have said no - probably should have - but he found didn't really have it in him to, not even with the weird flippy-buzzy shit hovering in the background. He was on the line, reeled all the way the fuck in, and Regal was back the fuck in his head again.

He _should_ have said no.

But what he did instead was smirk and dig up all the false cockiness he could muster. "So, guess you couldn't get enough of me, huh? Well, don't feel bad. A lot of people have that problem."

Regal tucked an arm behind his head, and matched him smirk for smirk. "Actually, I'm taking bets with myself how fast I can have you begging."

And _oh holy shit_, those words made that part of Dean that remember what it felt like being pinned down fucking shiver, but he scoffed anyway. "Yeah? What's the over-under on 'never in a million fucking years.'"

"Oh, I think I can do a bit better than that," Regal said. He sounded like he was about to laugh. "On that score, you're not as unpredictable as you might think. It'll happen."

Dean shook his head. "No fuckin' way."

No way he was gonna let Regal hear him beg.

"I suppose we'll see, sunshine."

"Guess we will, _old man_."

_Game fucking on._

Regal actually did laugh, this low and delighted sound. "I think you'll find this old man still has a few tricks up his sleeve, dear boy. Didn't our matches teach you anything?"

Dean made a show of eyeing him doubtfully. "I just don't want you to, like, break a hip trying to impress me or something. 'Cuz, you know, at your age, you kinda gotta watch that..."

"Break a…! Did you just…?" Regal spluttered. _Actually_ spluttered, which made Dean laugh so hard he nearly pissed himself. "Break a bloody _hip_. I still put a hitch in _your_ step, didn't I? Feeling a bit sore, are you?"

"From my workout," Dean said, still snickering. He finished zipping up his suitcase "The gym workout."

Totally lying because he was sore in places that never got sore from gym workouts, but wild fucking horses weren't gonna get that one out of him.

"Right," Regal said. "Just the gym workout, then."

"It _was_," Dean insisted, standing. "Totally."

Regal stood, too, and stepped closer. "S'pose you're going to try to claim you never felt a thing, aren't you?"

"Well, I mean, it felt good but it, like, _tickled _more than anything," Dean said, shrugging. He backed up a couple steps, not realizing until he hit the wall behind him that he was kinda trapped between the two dressers on either side of him, the wall, and Regal in front of him.

_Well, that was just dumb_.

Regal - who somehow looked smaller in his suit than he had naked - moved in and settled a hand on the wall by Dean's head. The other hand found its way to Dean's chin, tipping it aside. "Looks like these are fading."

But of course Regal was Regal, and Regal was an asshole, so _of fucking course_ he had to suck another hickey probably right over where an old one was.

He actually bit down and hard enough that Dean sucked a sharp breath and tried to pull away. "Ow. Jesus. Cut that out, ya fuckin' vampire."

"Bet _that_ didn't tickle," Regal said quietly, the words a warm rush of air against the side of Dean's neck.

"Yeah, no fuckin' _shit_ it-dmm."

Regal kissed him again, cutting off the rest of whatever Dean was going to say - same soft kiss as before, but just for a second, just to start, because Dean growled into it, and Regal huffed and then it got pretty hot and heavy, all tongues and teeth and some over-the-clothes groping going on at the same time.

Which was okay.

It was fine.

Dean could handle this.

As long as it was just sex and not - not that soft shit, he was okay.

He was _all over_ it.

And - _fuck_, Regal was a good kisser - not sloppy about it, but like knew what he was fucking doing with his tongue and shit, and Dean suddenly wished they had another hour.

They didn't, though, and of course Regal would fucking remember that - _such an asshole_ - and back off all at once, just _bam_ - not-there when he'd fucking _been_ there, a loss of sensation that was actually unexpected and kinda startling, and Dean opened his eyes to find Regal, like, halfway across the room already.

Looked kind of flushed, too, as he picked his duffel bag up off the bed, so there was that, at least.

Something real heated, too, in the look he shot Dean over his shoulder. "Ready?"

_We want the same thing_.

("_Just taking bets with myself how fast I can make you beg_.")

They did, didn't they?

So what was fucking wrong with _that_?

_Not a fucking thing, that's what._

Dean hoisted his own bag, nodded, shoved his shades on, and said, "Rock and roll."

xXx

Reality, of course, would give him a real cold slap across the face soon enough, but for now - for now, anyway - yeah.

It was okay.

xXx

A/N: Rambly, like I said, and now plot will happen. Thanks for reading.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks everyone, for reading and reviewing! I appreciate it. Also, I suppose it's only fair to bring back the warnings for dark/disturbing shit 'cuz we're headed that way. Mindfuckery ahead. It's a long 'un. Enjoy.

**VI. "It was a pleasure to burn."**

"_Abigail!" Bray hollered at his sister. "Abigail, wait!"_

_But she ran, quick as lightning, across the muddy bank and over to where Daddy had Matt Harper bent over that big old stump._

_Daddy stumbled back, pulling his pants up - _why were they down in the first place? _- and snapping, "You stay back, little girl. Mind your daddy now."_

_Matt kept on bawling like a baby. Daddy grabbed him rough by the back of his neck and one arm and threw him down into the mud. "Quit your bellyachin'. Pull your damn pants up."_

_He raised the belt again and brought it down. Snapped sharp like a gunshot. Bray jumped. He was so scared that he wanted to turn and run away, but Abigail hadn't stopped running._

_She ran up to where Daddy was getting ready to take another swing. "Stop it, Daddy!"_

_Daddy brought the belt down hard._

_It made a different sound this time, more a dull _thump _than a sharp snap, but Abigail suddenly dropped like a stone, shrieking in pain._

_Bray forgot all about being scared and just got mad._

_Daddy hunkered over her, belt dangling from his hand. "Dammit, girl, I told you-"_

_He didn't have a chance to finish what he was saying, because Bray barreled into him. He was big enough for his age that he sent Daddy tumbling backward into the mud, just like Daddy had tossed Matt down there._

_As Daddy tumbled, Bray caught a strong whiff of whatever Daddy had been drinking this morning - whiskey or beer, Bray never knew which, but the smell of it - the awful stink of it - made something just _snap _in Bray's head._

_That, and the sight of blood - bright and red - trickling out of Abigail's nose._

_Bright and red._

_He screamed and raged and lashed out at his daddy, little fists pounding away and teeth gnashing at whatever he could find._

_Daddy punched him and whopped him with the belt, and it _hurt_, _God _it hurt, but Bray didn't stop and neither did Daddy. _

"_Son of a bitch!" Daddy snarled __at him, swinging the belt in a low, hard arc that sent it across Bray's arm and around Bray's back. Bray hollered in pain as fire licked through him. But he charged back in, biting down into Daddy's arm as hard as he could._

_Daddy howled._

_Abigail screamed, "Stop it! Stop it! You're hurting him!" She grabbed Bray's arm, tiny fingers digging into his wrist. "Stop!"_

_While Bray was distracted trying to shake Abigail loose, Daddy took the opportunity to push him away._

_Bray stumbled on the slick mud, going to his knees with a wet plop. _

_He flung the arm Abigail had a hold of out, whipping her away._

_She reeled, and her normally-nimble feet tangled together in the weeds. She thumped down backward onto the big rocks. The back of her head hit hard enough her teeth clacked together._

_Her eyes closed._

_And never opened again._

x

"_You worthless bastard!" Daddy'd shout at him for the first time about a week later. "You were s'psed to protect her! You killed her!"_

_Sloppy drunk, but the belt still cracked sharp like thunder when he brought it down on Bray's back._

_It burned like fire._

_Burned and burned._

xXx

The human mind, Bray Wyatt mused as he leaned against the freezing side of a metal dumpster, was an incredibly strange beast.

Snow drifted down around him, soft white and whispering against a bruised gray mid-afternoon sky.

His breath hung in the air like white smoke.

The mind, he thought again, the mind worked in mysterious ways, didn't it, conjuring up dreams of things that never happened.

He'd never stumbled into Abigail; wasn't him that had killed her - no, no it was certainly not - but sometimes...

Sometimes that old dream came to him, and for the life of him, he could never understand why.

Daddy's careless fists had killed her, and Bray had made Daddy pay for it, and that was all there was to it.

But sometimes his dreams insisted it went other ways.

Horrible ways.

_You killed her!_

_You were s'posed to protect her._

He hadn't done either one.

He'd had the dream just this morning, in the wee hours, and he'd awoken as unsettled as the weather now, with its cold, shifting winds and periods of brooding, snowy silence.

Abigail herself was quiet, and had been all night, having cried herself out after the rabbit got away.

Things only got worse when, just a bit ago, he and his boys arrived here to the arena and had seen John Cena - ironically - with his horrible plastic smile talking down to two tiny little wisps of humanity - beautiful, dying little lights, spindly and pale and fragile from their illness, but bright-eyed and smiling with something so devastatingly _genuine_ that Bray found it sickening - truly disgusting - that that it was over-inflated Ken doll with his pasted-on grin and dead eyes that their grief-dazed parents gushed their thanks to.

The two little boys' eyes - blue, both of them, just like Abigail's - were full of hero-worship as they looked up at Cena.

Cena, in his neon everything - hat, wristbands, tee shirt - with his face plastered over every inch of it, looked back at them like he'd had a full-body shot of Novocain.

But he smiled for the cameras that clicked and snapped like the jaws of hungry animals.

Bray had never wanted to rip a man's beating heart and burn it to ash more. His fingernails cut bloody, grinning crescents in his palms - four in each.

He'd sent Erick and Luke away, and he'd pulled his hat low over his eyes as he'd back out into the bruised gray cold of the empty parking lot. Eventually, he'd found his way over to the side of a tall dumpster that provided some protection against the swirling wind, his mind already turning over what he wanted to tell the world about John Cena.

_That face on the billboard_.

But his thoughts, those elusive things, kept slipping away from him, kept blowing and drifting away like snowflakes caught in a sharp gust.

He found himself watching the parking lot, watching as the others - the ignorant narcissists and outright fools calling themselves Superstars and Divas - arrived in their packs of two and three, all of them bunched up and racing in to find warmth.

He crouched down beside the dumpster to make himself less conspicuous, eyes peeled for the rabbit as he wondered, even now, just how Ambrose managed to slip free of the snare last night.

The nagging question that was at the heart of his unease.

_You killed her._

_You failed her_.

No, no he hadn't done either.

(_Did I, Abigail? Why won't you talk to me?_)

Finally, though, finally the rabbit appeared - wrapped in a black leather coat, stocking hat and sunglasses - huddling against the icy wind, his bags slung across one shoulder, and none other than William Regal a step or two behind him.

The pale cold of Regal's eyes - stark contrast to the black he'd worn - swept across the parking lot, restless, clearly searching for something.

Regal looked back and forth among all the cars, along the outside of the building, around the trucks, and then right over to where Bray was still crouched.

Sudden alarm shooting through him, Bray ducked back.

Not fast enough, though, because his eyes locked with Regal's for an instant, for one fleeting second.

He actually saw Regal stop walking and turn, pale and dark with snow swirling around him.

It wasn't _fear_, exactly, that made Bray back against the side of the building and edge around the corner, that made him walk away quickly and head for an open door where the production crew was still carrying equipment inside (one well away from the door Regal and Ambrose had been headed toward), that made him seek out his boys in the dark of the arena's basement.

He wasn't afraid of William Regal.

_Bad man,_ Abigail whispered just then. It was the first time he'd heard her all day. She sounded worried. _We need to save him from the bad man. We have to save him before he gets lost again._

"We will, darlin," Bray murmured comfortingly to her. Relived and glad, because he hated it when she went quiet on him. (_You were s'posed to protect her._) He shook the snow off his hat's brim as he headed down a quiet flight of concrete steps. "We'll stop the bad man."

_He _is _a bad man, Bray._

"He's a paper snake, Abigail," Bray said. "Might hiss at us, but he's got no teeth. You remember."

Back at NXT, they'd exposed Regal as nothing more than a mere shadow of the monster he'd claimed himself to be. The snake had been defanged by the feud with Ambrose, but never quite seemed to realize he had no bite or poison left, wasn't smart enough to slither away and die like the old and broken thing he really was.

"Paper snake," he reminded himself, descending further into the dark. "But we'll have to crush it for good this time."

_Bad man_, Abigail said again.

But she began to talk, and as she spoke, as she poured out her sweet sunshine ideas, the chill that had seeped into his bones began to thaw and it took the concern - _not fear, never fear _- with it.

He moved away from the stairs and into the cold, empty basement, humming under his breath.

Bad man, all right, but Bray knew a thing or two about bad men, didn't he?

From John Cena to Triple H to William Regal and back again, the world was just _full_ of 'em.

xXx

After some nice, leisurely late morning sex - Seth on top this time, riding Roman slow and easy - and an invigorating workout at a nearby CrossFit box (to which Seth dragged Roman kicking and screaming, and where he then proceeded to stomp Roman's ass at the Workout of the Day), they had a late lunch and finally headed off to the arena.

He did think about texting Dean about meet for breakfast, but decided to leave it alone.

Especially after the whole 'you're out, but you're not _out_' shit last night.

Truth was, Seth thought as he stood surveying the tiny, windowless room that Dean had apparently claimed for them earlier (had left most of his shit - including his cell phone - in there, anyway), he really wasn't in a hurry to dig back into that issue.

He'd had a good night and morning with Roman - had ranted and raved and then had been fucked rough until all the edges in his brain had been sanded down and smoothed out enough to let him sleep - and felt ready to focus on dealing with the Wyatts.

Because out of everything they had in front of them, the Wyatts were the big issue.

"If we can just deal with the Wyatts, get a win back from them," Seth had said last night, pacing the small confines of their shared hotel room, "then I think it'll help us get our feet back under us."

"We would've gotten a win back last night," Roman pointed out from where he'd sat on the end of the bed. He'd stripped down to just his pants, and his hair hung loose like a dark waterfall over his shoulders. Pensive eyes had found Seth's. "But he was right, wasn't he? Dean. It wouldn't have mattered."

"It would've," Seth said. He'd yanked his own tee shirt off and tossed it over onto the armchair where all their bags had ended up. "Any win's a win, but we need more. We gotta make 'em see there's plenty of fight left in these dogs. Burn these assholes to the ground."

Now, he thought as he snapped his vest's buckles closed and reached for his gloves, _now_ was the time put word into action.

Wyatt supposedly had something to say to John Cena tonight - _like we're already an afterthought_ - and there was no fucking way he was getting away without answering for the shit he'd done.

"So do we wait here?" Roman asked suddenly. He'd finished dressing already, other than he hadn't pulled his hair out of its ponytail. "Or should we go see if we can find...him or them, or…? What are we even doing?"

Seth shook his head. "We should try to find him first but if we find them, let's - we'll throw down our challenge. Another match tonight. All six of us - once and for all."

Roman squared his shoulders and grinned. "Sounds good. Sounds real _damn_ good. Lead the way, baby."

Funny thing, though, they walked around and around the arena - making quiet laps through through the basement, up to the concourse, and back down to the locker area, but never saw Dean or the Wyatts anywhere.

They saw other people - PAs, other Superstars and Divas, and even, at one point, William Regal off talking to Xavier Woods - but not the people they were looking for.

More worried than he wanted to admit and suddenly wound so tight he felt his spine might snap in half, Seth grabbed a production guy and told him if he saw Ambrose running around anywhere to send him to the locker room. The PA nodded distractedly and scurried off to go do whatever the hell it was he did, leaving Seth to turn and give Roman a kind of tired, frustrated look.

Roman's frown carved deep lines into his forehead, and Seth knew without even having to ask what he was thinking, but before Roman could even _start_ to suggest they consider making The Shield a two-man act, too, Seth walked away.

The thing was, he still felt like hell about last night.

Yeah, he'd been the one to suggest pushing Dean out of the relationship to kind of smooth things over with Roman, but fuck, that wasn't how he wanted things to go - not even close.

He wanted to have a chance to talk to Dean himself and apologize, explain.

As much as Dean acted like nothing mattered to him, Seth knew _he_ mattered.

They tried to push it off as 'just sex' down in FCW, but Dean somehow managed to insert himself into Seth's life so seamlessly over the past three years that Seth took it for granted he'd always be there, cracking some stupid fucking joke to get Seth smiling after a shitty day, or making fun of Seth for being addicted to CrossFit, or pushing Seth to have the kind of rough-and-tumble sex he craved but couldn't seem to get anywhere else, or just hanging out watching stupid movies while they filched food of each other's plates.

After all that, he wanted to do better than, 'Sorry, bro, sex was great, but you're out,' and he wanted better from Dean than that shitty fake smile and, 'It's fine.'

Because it wasn't fine.

It wasn't fucking fine at all.

But with Wyatt and now Regal hovering over their heads like vultures, and everything in the whole damn world trying to crack them all apart, he wasn't sure _what_ to do.

"Stupid motherfucker," he muttered, fetching Dean's bags one good, swift kick.

It sent everything, cell phone and all, tumbling to the ground.

He was still staring down at it all when he felt strong arms close around him from behind - one tattooed and one not - and felt a chin settle on his shoulder.

Which shouldn't have helped - he wanted to be mad at Roman, he really, really did - but it _did_ help, especially because what Roman said was, "If you want, I'll catch a cab back to the hotel after we're done here tonight - assuming this thing with the Wyatts doesn't blow out of control - and you can have the car. In case…"

Seth pushed his hair back off his face and nodded. "Thanks."

Roman cleared his throat. "You know, uh, I'm not sure he's gonna be real happy about you breaking his phone. If you did."

"How the hell would he even know?" Seth snorted. "Not like he ever turns the fucking thing on, anyway."

"Mm." Roman's chuckle rumbled through them both. "True. Very true."

Eventually, Roman led Seth over to the tiny room's lone bench bench, and together, they sat down to wait.

xXx

There was, Regal mused, really nothing quite like the sight of Dean Ambrose down on his knees.

Certainly made Regal weak in his.

Especially - and most crucially at the moment - when Ambrose was on his knees intently focused on working over a cock with his mouth.

Regal honestly had to sag back against the men's room's white-tiled wall to keep himself upright as that wily mouth and its wicked tongue worked together to create friction in the kind of slow rhythm that'd about drive a man mad.

"You," Regal panted, fingers threading through Ambrose's hair and tugging lightly, "are bloody amazing at this."

Ambrose hmmed in agreement as he licked his way down and back up again, and Regal shuddered at reverberation. Which made Ambrose laugh quietly, which sent more of those little subtle tingles racing up Regal's spine, and round and around.

One of his better ideas today, and considering what they'd gotten up to this morning, that was saying something.

Ambrose was still Ambrose, of course, and despite the lurking threat that was Bray Wyatt, the idea of being around a lot of people had appealed to him about as much as an anesthesia-free tooth extraction.

Regal's compromise had been to stick him in one of the rooms the production crew had commandeered to store equipment crates. The room had a door, and Regal threatened castration if the bloody idiot even thought about opening it before Regal finished his meeting with Xavier Woods and his call with the NXT team.

Ambrose's eyes had widened in mock horror, hands lifting to cover himself. "Not the boys. Kinda attached to 'em here."

Regal had reached over to ruffle his hair. "Then be a good lad and do as you're told."

He knew full well Ambrose would bristle at words like those, and naturally Ambrose had, chin lifting and eyes narrowing. But his mouth had quirked, and he'd said, "You're lucky I want to take a nap anyway right now, 'cuz otherwise, I'd tell you exactly where to stick it, old man."

Regal'd merely laughed and looked deliberately down at Ambrose's backside . "Already have, lad. Although, if that's an invitation, I certainly won't say no. In fact, I'd take you up on it now, if not for my meeting."

"Not like my ass is going anywhere," Ambrose'd pointed out. He'd hopped up on a small stack of crates and slouched back against another. "So go. Do your shit." A lazy flap of his hand. "See you later."

Regal had walked away bloody giddy - _giddy_ - as a child with a brand new toy. And he'd spent his meeting caught somewhere between watching out for Wyatt and anticipatory impatience.

(_Dear God in heaven, what is the _matter _with you?_)

He didn't see Wyatt and the meeting finally ended, so he'd hurried back to the room, and he'd felt more relieved than he probably should have to see Ambrose was still there. Ambrose had changed into his Shield gear at some point, but that was the only difference; he sat awake, slouched against the crate stack behind him, fingers drumming and absent rhythm on his chest.

Still a while to go before the _Main Event _taping even started, a fact that neither remarked on as Ambrose stood and stretched and followed Regal up to an empty men's room on the still-deserted upper concourse. Not an ideal place for this, but it was just to take the edge off anyway.

Ambrose seemed to understand that, too, because he turned and pushed Regal back against the wall practically before the door closed, going to his knees and reaching for Regal's belt without so much as a 'by your leave.'

He'd dived right in like he couldn't wait, unselfconscious and unashamed, and Regal quite liked that.

At the moment, he _very much_ liked it, liked the sight of that shaggy head bobbing and the occasional smug looks filtered up through his lashes and...well, all of it, really.

Like having Ambrose pinned down under him this morning, this was something he could get used to.

Regal let his head fall back against the tile and let the boy take him apart, feeling everything build until he choked out some incoherent warning, which only earned him another one of those _hmms_ and the tight suction around him speeding up until he finished, eyes squinched shut and teeth grit against the sounds that wanted to escape between them as Ambrose swallowed everything down.

Afterward, Ambrose sat back, looking impossibly self-satisfied even with his chin shiny and his eyes gone a bit glassy, and Regal, buzzing and boneless, nudged him with a foot, muttering, "Shut it, you."

Ambrose just laughed and rolled to his feet easily despite the rather prominent evidence of his own arousal tenting his trousers. He walked over to one of the sinks and bent down to splash water over his face.

Regal eventually made his way over to the other sink, quickly wiping himself down and tucking himself away - both relieved and rather impressed to see his trousers were still perfectly clean.

Loose-limbed and relaxed all over again, he ambled over to return the favor.

Without asking for permission, he undid and unfastened and unzipped, and finally tugged Ambrose's trousers down out of the way. Even managed not to fumble too much, for all that his brain was still in a fog.

He leaned close and murmured, "Turn 'round. Put your hands on the sink."

Ambrose gave him a wary look, but eventually did what he was told, bending forward a bit to lean over and brace his hands on either side of the white porcelain.

Regal pushed up tight behind him, chest-to-back, the cradle of his hips flush against Ambrose's backside.

For the second time that day, he had Ambrose pinned.

He doubted Ambrose minded a bit.

In fact, Ambrose just shuddered and pulled in a shaky breath when Regal nipped the side of his neck.

_Oh, you _like _that_, Regal thought, stifling the urge to laugh.

He hooked one arm around Ambrose's chest and let the other hand wander down to Ambrose's very erect cock, and he smiled again into the curve of Ambrose's shoulder.

The boy's knuckles were white on the edges of the sink.

But Regal didn't mess about this time, just nipped and kissed the bare bits of skin near his mouth as his hands stayed busy below the belt, alternating quick, flicking strokes with slower twisting ones and pausing to scrape the palm of his hand just-so until he had Ambrose practically writhing into his hands (as much as he could, anyway, given how tightly Regal had him pinned against the sink), muttering a rough string of curses that sped up as he ground himself faster into Regal's hand.

Regal pushed himself in tight and sped up his hand, and finally Ambrose went over, teeth grit and breathing like a bloody steam engine, body shaking and jerking like it was caught in some odd sort of earthquake.

Eventually, he took a deep breath and pushed it out, muttering, "Jesus _fuck_."

Taking that as his cue to back off, Regal moved back to the other sink, leaving Ambrose braced where he was, red-faced and panting.

"All right there?" he couldn't help asking, corner of his mouth pulled into a smirk.

"Fuck off," Ambrose muttered.

Chuckling, Regal twisted the water on and stuck his hands under it. "Now, now, no need to be rude. I could have made you beg, you know."

"No, you couldn't have." He looked over. "I feel like we've had this conversation before."

"I was just thinking," Regal said, "that if you're so sure I won't be able to make you beg, why don't we wager on it? If I can make you beg tonight, you let me do anything I want to you for a night. If I can't, I'll do anything you want for one. And, lad, when I say anything, I do mean _anything_ – doesn't jut have to be something in the bedroom."

"Oh, you're on," Ambrose said, grinning wolfishly. "You are _so_ on, old man."

Regal merely smiled himself – already imagining all the fun he was going to have with this – and shut the water off, tugging a paper towel down to dry his hands.

"Well, then," he said, "now that that's settled, I do have a more serious question for you. Have you got any pressing plans for your days off?"

"Uh." Ambrose's expression closed down in a hurry, mouth tightening and eyebrows pinching together. He turned on his own faucet and began cleaning himself up. "Not - uh, not really. Just, y'know, goin home. Why?"

Regal cleared his throat. The idea had popped into his head this morning while Ambrose was down working out, and had come back again at the first sight of Bray Wyatt skulking about. "Don't read anything into this - it's honestly because I'm concerned about Wyatt - but I think you ought to come stay with me in Florida this week. I'll be down doing some work for NXT part of the time, but I don't expect you'll have keeping yourself occupied. I have a guest room," he added when he saw Ambrose blink at him, "and that's where I'd put you."

"Oh." Ambrose tucked himself back in and zipped up, frowning. He seemed a bit thrown. "Well, uh, I already got my flight home booked and - I mean, do you really think Wyatt would…? He wouldn't come after me in Vegas, would he?"

"I don't know," Regal admitted. "But considering what he did last night, I'd say it would be rather foolish on your part to think he wouldn't." He folded his arms over his chest and leaned sideways against the sink. "If you'd rather not come to Florida, what about staying with Reigns or Rollins?"

"No."

After a short mental debate, Regal said, "I know it's none of my concern, but what _did_ happen last night with you three? Are you still a team?"

Ambrose grabbed another wad of paper towels, shoved them under the water to wet them, and began swiping up the mess. "Yeah. In the ring. Out of it, not so much. We _were_. You probably knew - everybody knew - we were fucking. Now we're not. Well…" He chucked the paper towels harder than necessary at the bin. "They are, still. But they wanted me out. Want to get serious, I guess. Just them. So I'm out. So no, I can't stay with them."

Regal felt an odd tug at that - two conflicting urges pulling at either end of a rope: wanting to laugh in spiteful glee at the badly-concealed hurt in the boy's eyes, and a sudden desire to lash out at Reigns and Rollins in the same manner he wanted to lash out at Wyatt.

Push and pull.

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. Wasn't the time for it, really. "It wouldn't take much more than a phone call to change your flight. And I stand by what I said: I'm not _positive_ Wyatt will try anything, but considering the trouble he's given you the last couple days, I'm not sure it's worth taking the chance. If something _were_ to happen to you out there, it might be a while before anyone realizes it."

"All right, all right, all right," Ambrose muttered. He was all but hugging himself, fingers tapping his biceps. "Mean, maybe me and the guys get lucky tonight and we put these assholes down, but, like, in case we don't, in case something happens, yeah, maybe - _maybe_ - you got a point. Guess - fuck, I don't know. I could. Y'know. Come down. If you got a guest room or whatever. That - I mean, I guess that'd be okay. But, fuck, I don't really wanna run. I'd rather just cut his fucking throat and be done with it, you know?"

"I know," Regal said. Took a lot of willpower for him not to smile. "But there are laws and things you have to abide by, however annoying you might find them. 'Thou shalt not kill,' and so on. You'll have to settle for pounding their heads into the canvas."

"Hmm." Ambrose shrugged. "That's always fun. And I can do that as much as I want."

"That you can," Regal said. "And, ah, to lighten the mood a bit, we do have that wager ahead of us this evening. If you come down to Florida, the loser will have plenty of time to make good on his end of it."

The corners of Ambrose's mouth twitched up. "That - uh, that's very true. Huh. Yeah. Uh, guess - I mean, that could definitely be a thing. I should, uh…" He patted his pants pockets. "Shit, I left my phone down in the locker room. Guess - fuck, yeah, I should probably go see if I can find Seth and Roman, anyway. See what they wanna do tonight."

Regal nodded and pushed away from the sink. "I've got to get going myself. I'm due ringside to watch the NXT lads go at it in the dark match."

Still a bit of time before he had to be down there, though - time enough, he thought, as he followed Ambrose out of the room, for one last errand.

Because he might not have wanted to be in this fight, but he was in it now, and if he was in it, then by God, he was going to be _in it_ to the bitter, bloody end.

xXx

The restless crowd chanting overhead made the building feel like it was creaking and groaning around them.

It reminded Luke of being a kid again, back in the swamp, and crowding into the old barn where Bray's daddy delivered his word to the whole family: people would start to get lost in it all, moaning and rocking like they were possessed, and everyone would start singing, their voices drifting up toward the dusty old loft where Luke and Bray and the others would play. The whole barn would moan and move with them.

It was fitting, Luke guessed, that Bray was now delivering his word in a place like this - to a crowd a thousand times the size of the family at the compound and in a place bigger than that old barn ever dreamed of being.

Doing something his lying murderer of a daddy never did.

Luke couldn't hear what they were chanting, not down in the basement, but he could _hear_ the chants like some rhythmic heartbeat, and it eased him some.

Seemed to ease Bray, too, who'd been tooing-and-froing down the narrow, dark hallway they'd hold up in.

Bray hadn't said much since telling them about seeing Regal, but Luke guessed he was busy listening to whatever Abigail had to say to want to talk much.

In fact-

A heavy _thump_ and the sounds of a startled scuffle at the far end of the hallway had Luke pushing away from the wall he'd been leaning against and running like his life depended on it.

("_My life for you, Bray_.")

He skidded to a stop near the stairwell, just managing not to trip on Erick, who slumped down a heap against the wall, sheep mask knocked askew and blood trickling from the side his head to his beard.

Someone had Bray pushed up against the wall in the stairwell itself - a big, broad-shouldered man in a black suit, shaggy blond hair hanging down over his collar.

The man - Regal, Luke was sure, because nobody else he knew fit that description - had an arm barred across Bray's throat, and one knee shoved right up into the fork of Bray's legs.

One of Bray's hands was cuffed to the bannister behind him.

Regal had been that fast.

Now he shot Luke a look over one shoulder and said, "Don't." The tone of his voice and the cold in eyes conjured up images of the swirling snow outside. His other hand, Luke suddenly noticed, was holding something up to the side of Bray's neck. Looked like a knife of some kind, or a straight-razor. "Stay right where you are and you'll all three walk away."

In the stairwell's twilight dim, Bray's face was mostly shadows, but Luke thought he was smiling. "Easy, now," he said, and he didn't sound troubled. It sounded, in fact, like he was about to start laughing. "Easy, Luke. It's all right. Let's hear what he's got to say." He did chuckle, quiet and dark. "Although I'm pretty sure I can guess."

Regal looked back around at Bray. "I'm sure you can, sunshine. I'm sure you know exactly why I'm here."

"To chase me off your property?" Bray drawled lazily. "Funny - I didn't see your name stamped anywhere on him. And believe me, I took a _real _good look." He hissed suddenly, air caught sharp between his teeth, and Luke twitched forward as he saw a line of dark blood ooze down over the bandage that still covered up the bite. Bray caught his eye over Regal's shoulder and shook his head. "Stay where y'are, Luke."

"That's a very good idea, Mr. Harper," Regal said.

Bray looked back at Regal. "So. It would seem you've got my attention. You're gonna threaten me. Lemme guess: you'll kill me if I get near him? Something like that?"

"Something like that," Regal replied. He had a smile of his own in his voice. "Except it won't be quick and I guarantee you it won't be painless. Every mark, every scar, everything you've done to him - you'll get twice, with more besides. You'll be wishing for your end long before it comes." He was matter-of-fact about it, the words simple and start, and Luke somehow found that far more unnerving than any actual threat.

"Real original." Bray, though, he almost sounded bored. Not the least intimidated. "Why not just do it now and be done, Regal?"

"John Cena."

Luke blinked at that. _Bray _blinked at that. "What about 'im?"

"I feel the way you do about him," Regal said. "I think you'll find more do than don't. Man's a bloody cancer on our industry – a hypocrite and a liar. Only in it for his own fame and fortune, which – honestly, who isn't? I wouldn't even mind it so much if he'd just be honesty about it. Stop pretending he gives a damn about those little children, stop shilling that garbage he wears, and just bloody accepts the fact he's a villain. Because he is. He'd be absolutely magnificent at it. But instead, he's a leech. A virus. Everything you've called him and more."

"If that's so," Bray said, "if that's _so_, why haven't _you_ stepped in to stop him?"

"Because I know I can't," was the quiet reply. "He's the disease, but I'm not the cure. Are you, I wonder? Are you the cure, Bray Wyatt?"

For a long time, Bray was quiet. Luke crouched down beside Erick, who'd begun to stir, and put a hand in the middle of Erick's chest to keep him still.

Finally, Bray said, "I am."

"I think you might be," Regal said. The razor moved again, this time hissing along the line of Bray's beard. More blood followed it. "I hope you are, actually, I really do. You're so very different from everyone else who's tried to cure that disease, that cancer, aren't you? Yes, yes, I'm rather excited to see what you'll do. How you'll do it."

"Are you, now?" Bray rasped. His voice sounded a bit strange, tight and strangled.

"Mm-hmm." Regal laughed quietly. "So are you, from the sounds of things. Hmm. Well, as I said, leave Ambrose alone. Unless you're in a sanctioned match with him, don't look at him, don't speak to him, don't go near him, don't lay a finger on him. If you do…" One more line, this up under Bray's ear. "You'll find, as he did, this old man has a few nasty little tricks left up his sleeve. Are we understood?"

The cuff around Bray's wrist clanked as he shifted and cleared his throat. "He ain't yours, Regal."

"No, he's not," Regal said, "and I never said he was. As many times as I've been bitten, I know better." One finger tapped the bandage on Bray's neck, which was now all slicked up with blood. "You can't be that eager to see that monster set loose, can you?"

The brim of Bray's hat bobbed as he nodded. "All that destruction, all that chaos. Monster like that out there clearing my way forward, there wouldn't be much could stop me. Could stop us."

"No," Regal said, "but I rather think a snowflake had a better chance of surviving the fiery depths that you ever actually finding a way to control him. Especially considering what you did to him the other night. I think he'd rip your heart out the first chance he got. And I'd pay good money to see it." Regal backed off all at once, pulling the knife away from Bray's throat. "He's not for you, lad, so you'd best let him be. John Cena, on the other hand, is. Stop that cancer spreading. Kill the virus. Show people what he really is."

He walked up two steps, facing Bray the entire time, casually wiping his razor on a handkerchief he produced from his suit coat's inside pocket.

Bray didn't move. He couldn't, not with his hand cuffed. "We mean to," he said. "But so we're clear: it's Ambrose you want me to stay away from, or all three of them?"

Regal looked at Bray for a long time.

Eventually, he folded his razor closed and put it away. He reached into another pocket, pulled something else out and flicked it at Bray.

Bray caught whatever it was - something small and on a chain - one-handed.

The handcuff key, Luke realized, as he heard the metal clatter.

As he turned away, Regal said, "Just Ambrose. Can't say as I much care what happens to the other two."

With that, he disappeared up the stairs.

Luke and Erick both scrambled to their feet, Erick nearly tripping over himself in his haste to make it over to Bray's side. He wound up on his knees at the foot of the stairs, with Luke standing beside him, big boot resting on the bottom step.

Bray, still following Regal's progress up, lifted his now-free hand to swipe at the side of his neck. The three neat blood lines smeared into one. "Well, well, well," he said, "wasn't that interestin."

"I'm sorry, Bray," Erick said, voice muffled behind his mask. He hung his head. "I didn't see him coming."

"It's all right," Bray said absently. "I didn't either. But it doesn't matter. Not at all."

Something about the tone of Bray's voice took Luke back to a time when two boys had stood on a riverbank in the midnight dark, an empty can of gasoline each in hand, and had watched bright orange flames engulf a boat.

Luke, smaller and skinnier and dumber, had said, "What if somebody sees?"

Bray, eyes aglow with firelight, had said, absently, "It doesn't matter. Doesn't matter at all."

Now, Luke shifted, tugged at his beard. "What do we do now?"

"Exactly what we planned to," Bray said, finally turning to look at Luke and Erick. He slipped the handcuffs and its key into his pocket. "Break The Shield, fetch Abigail the rabbit, and destroy John Cena."

Eyes drawn to the blood on the side of Bray's neck, Luke said, "How do we get the rabbit?"

Bray..._giggled. _Cackled. The broken glass sound on its edges made Luke's arms prickle hard enough he had to rub them. But if Bray noticed that, or the way even Erick shifted, he gave no sign. "Regal's no threat to us, boys," he said. "That was unexpected, I admit, but it was more humorous than frightening, wasn't it? Toothless snake thinking a loud hiss is gonna frighten us away. We'll take the rabbit. We'll take him right out from under his nose. She saw the way. Abigail. He didn't. Didn't even realize that he just handed us a loaded gun and told us exactly where to aim it. But she saw. She knows.

"And we'd do it," he went on, "this very night.

"For now, boys, let's go educate these poor lost souls about the cancer that is John Cena."

Humming, he led Luke and Erick out of the dark stairwell and into the light of the main hall.

It was a long time before Luke's skin stopped prickling.

xXx

_Daddy was a bad man._

_Sloppy drunk who talked in sloppy riddles and threw sloppy punches._

"_You were s'posed to protect her, you worthless bastard," he'd slur, and the belt in his hand would fall in a sloppy arc across Bray's back - not cracking smart, but crashing down with a limp _whump _that still hurt because it came buckle-end first. "You were s'posed to protect her. She's dead and it's your fault. Your fault. You were s'posed to protect her."_

Whop_._

_It burned and burned._

_But Bray got the last laugh, hadn't he?_

_At fifteen, with his friend Luke Harper at his side._

_(They'd found Luke's brother Matt dead in the swamp four years ago, partially eaten. He wasn't the only one that turned up dead over the next few years - they found the whole McReedy family (father, mother, and two sons) scattered in bits out there, too, not long after the McReedys threatened to leave the compound; they also found fifteen-year-old Becky Cray girl out there, mutilated almost beyond recognition (and Bray shuddered at that because he'd seen his daddy eyeing that girl's blossoming chest often as she'd carried wood across the compound); and the most recent was Becky Cray's daddy, who got drunk and screamed at everyone that he was going to the police._

_He disappeared in the night, but nobody ever found him._

_Nobody ever talked about him._

_They were scared to.)_

_When he wasn't sloppy drunk, Daddy was a force of nature, big and burly and powerful, with the kind of personality that drew people in and kept them there. And Daddy, he kept all the families at the compound on a short, tight leash._

_For all that Daddy claimed to want to change the world and bring order into the chaos, to expose the fake and ignorant and to unseat the lying kings from their unearned thrones, he created a stifling atmosphere of paranoia and distrust for anyone outside "the family," painting the rest of the world as full of rapists and liars and killers._

_By thirteen, Bray couldn't help thinking there were just as many monsters in the compound as out._

_Bad men everywhere._

_And it burned and burned and burned - Daddy's every hit, every slurred curse, every lie, every time Daddy eyed his next-_

_(_victim)

_-conquest like he didn't think Bray was watching._

_It burned and burned and burned._

_At first Bray was too small to fight back right._

_But it finally dawned on him when he was fifteen what he didn't have on Daddy in size he definitely had on him in _mind_. And it was his _mind _- not his muscles - he needed to use to kill the monster._

"'_S your fault," Daddy slurred. "Your fault, you worthless bastard."_

Whap. Whap_._

_Bray's mouth was filled with blood and both eyes were swollen shut, and there wasn't much of him that didn't hurt._

_Daddy's first hit was a complete blindsider, a knock over the back the head and sent him crashing to the kitchen floor in a heap. He'd knocked into one of the kitchen chairs, which had in turn rattled the table enough to knock a glass onto the floor. It shattered and Daddy'd thrown Bray down on it._

_His back burned from the belt and his hands and knees sizzled from glass cuts, and a bonfire raged in his mind._

_But he'd laughed._

_Oh he'd laughed despite the pain, and that had driven Daddy into an even greater frenzy, but Bray suddenly knew what he had to do, and he wasn't scared - not anymore - because Daddy _wasn't _a monster._

_Daddy was just a bad man and there was a way to deal with bad men._

_After it was all said and done, Daddy staggered off into the buzzing night, leaving Bray to bleed all over._

_The very next night, Bray'd limped out to meet his only friend Luke Harper._

_He'd spoken the five words - the secret - he'd been carrying around with him for the last four years._

"_My daddy killed your brother."_

_(Daddy'd killed them all, hadn't he?)_

_(You killed them.)_

_(Your fault.)_

_And Luke, who was a year older and a lot bigger, had grabbed Bray by the collar and shook him until Bray's teeth came together - clacked together just like _hers _had - and Luke had demanded answers. ("you knew, you knew, you never tole me, why didn't you tell me if you knew")_

_Bray hadn't any to give him , just offered the only thing he could:_

_A chance to make it right._

_Two cans of gasoline - one each stolen from the Harpers' house and from Bray's own - and one match._

_And Daddy passed out drunk on his boat._

_The sound the boat made when it went up in flames was some kind of animal roar, guttural and deep, like something pulled out of Bray's own chest and he'd looked over at big Luke Harper - all of sixteen, but big as a man - and saw the bright orange flames reflected in Luke's eyes and he'd laughed._

_Laughed and laughed while the bad man burned._

_Burned and burned and burned._

_x_

_And that night, as he'd sat alone staring up at the stars, he thought about Abigail._

You hurt him_, she suddenly whispered at him, in that same, sweet, childish little voice that still haunted his dreams from time to time._

"_Yeah," he'd mumbled, propping his chin on his hands and smiling for the first time in what felt like years. It hurt - his face was battered and bruised - but he was just so glad to hear her he didn't care. "Guess I did."_

He was a bad man_, she said._

_Bray just nodded._

_She started humming to him, quiet and sweet, and it wasn't the same as a hug, but inside, for the first time since she went venchering off to heaven, he felt warm all the way through._

xXx

Dean wandered into the locker room already dressed in his gear.

He shot Seth and Roman a single glance, muttered, "Hey," and went over to grab his phone off the bags Seth had righted a few minutes ago.

Seth had been trying to distract himself by checking his Twitter feed; now he tossed his phone aside, trying to sake the sudden irritation. "'Hey'?" he asked. Just 'hey.' Like it was no big fucking deal he'd been missing all afternoon. "The hell have you been, man? We've been worried sick."

"Uh." Dean squinted down at the floor. "I didn't sleep too good last night, so I caught a nap in one of the offices down the hall. Forgot my phone like an idiot. And, uh, I gotta make a quick call, but I'll be back in a minute. We can, uh, you know, talk about what, I mean, I guess - whatever you guys want to do tonight."

Without waiting for an answer, he ducked back out into the hall.

As soon as he was gone, Seth jumped up and started pacing the little room again – three steps and around, fast enough to make him dizzy and drive Roman crazy again, but dammit, he knew what he heard:

'Whatever you guys wanna do tonight.'

'You guys.'

Not 'we.'

A quick look at Roman over on the bench showed him tight-jawed and staring moodily down at the floor, and Seth would have bet a week's pay Roman heard the same fucking thing.

_You guys_.

It was more like five minutes when Dean finally came back in.

"Hot date?" Seth asked.

Dean frowned and reached for his hoodie. "Uh, no. Just - travel stuff. Why are you pacing?"

"Just wondering if you're actually ever going to join your team tonight," Seth sniped. And immediately wanted to punch himself. He stopped and took a deep breath. "Forget I said that, sorry. Look, let's get out of here. Go somewhere quiet. We can talk about what we're going to do."

The locker room was in the middle of the main hall, where a lot of traffic passed by. Seth doubted any of them gave a shit about what The Shield was up to, but better safe than sorry.

"Oh-kay," Dean said slowly. He looked confused, but followed them out into what did prove to be a very busy hallway. "So, what, we thinkin' six-man match or something?"

Seth veered around a corner and headed off toward the big loading area, which right now, with _SmackDown_ finally underway, was mostly empty. "Yeah," he finally said. "Yeah, that's what we're thinking. I'm sure Wyatt's going to be out there at some point. We'll just go out there and throw out the challenge."

"Oh," Dean said. He cleared his throat. "All right. So. Uh, sounds like you got it figured out, then. What we're doing."

He sounded distracted, almost, or like he didn't give much of a shit, and it just hit Seth wrong. _Yeah_, he wanted to snap, _yeah, I did, no thanks to you, asshole._

They finally stopped walking, and Seth turned around to face his two teammates.

Roman was, not shockingly, glowering off at nothing, a muscle in his jaw working like he really wanted to say something, but couldn't quite get the words out.

Dean had pulled in on himself so much he kind of reminded Seth of a turtle, all hunched shoulders and his head down. He kept his attention on his wrist tape, running a finger over it to smooth it down. Looked pretty smooth already, but Seth guessed maybe there some hidden wrinkles or something.

Before Seth could vent his irritation (and fuck feeling bad, anyway), though, Roman turned to glare at the top of Dean's lowered head and said, sharply, "So you good with the plan, then, Ambrose? Got yourself together? Or are you gonna go rogue on us again?"

Seth snapped around to stare at him.

Because angry or not, fuck, that was harsh.

Dean rolled his eyes heavenward and made a really obnoxious frustrated noise - _AAAAH_ - that made Seth feel like decking him. "I'm here, aren't I?" he said without looking up from his tape "God, you tell me I need to relax. So, what, you still mad about the DQ thing?"

"The DQ _thing_?" Roman asked. "It's a _thing_?"

"Apparently," Dean muttered. "Guessing you are, then."

"It's a _loss_," Roman said. "A DQ is a loss. I don't lose."

"Look, what do you want from me?" Dean asked, suddenly flinging his hands wide. He sounded as frustrated and pissed off as Seth felt. "You want my help, you don't want my help - what? What do you want?"

"Two losses in a year and a half," Roman said. If looks could kill, Dean would be a smear of bones and blood on the wall. "Two losses in less than a week. Why? Because of you."

Every one of them froze the second Roman said it.

Felt like the damn air had been sucked out of the room.

Because it was the wrong fucking thing to say - none of them even believed it , anyway; it was just some stupidshit thing anger made Roman blurt out - and as soon as he realized it, Roman's whole expression changed from furious to apologetic.

But before he could get the words 'I'm sorry' out, Dean flared, "Well, you know, if you weren't always yelling at me, blaming me for things that-"

"Hey, hey, zip it!" Seth cut him off. "Roman, you lost. You're a grown man. Cut the crap and pick yourself up. Move on. 'Cuz I gotta tell ya, I think Wyatt is trying to move on." He pushed things that way - had to - because this situation had somehow turned into a ticking time bomb _again_. "Thinks we're just ashes in the wake of his path to John Cena, but we know better. Let's go show him we're more than three lone wolves, boys. Let's show 'im when you mess with the hounds, you get the teeth."

Dean was shifting his weight back and forth as he stared at the floor, expression unreadable, while Roman lifted his chin like a fuckin' warrior and grinned. "Strap up, boys. Let's go hunt Wyatts."

Seth led the way with Roman beside him.

Behind him, he heard a quiet snort and a muttered, "Elmer fuckin' Fudd. I so called that."

He shot a look over his shoulder and saw Dean smirking to whatever private joke was playing out in his head.

Better that, Seth guessed, than the anger.

xXx

They put up a united front against the Wyatts in the ring - Seth and Dean even managing to hit tandem suicide dives on Harper and Rowan, and then running back to snap to attention at Roman's side (like good little soldiers) - but Triple H, whose Authority was getting more and more out of control by the damn second, rained all over Seth's plan to challenge for a match tonight.

Instead, Hunter set it up for Monday.

Wyatt had taunted Roman into making the first move, but wound up backing down, grinning nastily like he was in on some secret no one else was.

Once again, though, The Shield owned the ring, much to the delight of the crowd, which, booed the Wyatts right out of the damn building for refusing to fight.

With things feeling stable between the three of them - for now - it felt a hell of a lot more like a victory than last night had.

xXx

"Now _that's_ more like it!" Seth said as soon as they made it into the little hallway beyond Gorilla. He reached over and clapped Roman on the shoulder. "And come Monday, boys, we're gonna wipe those Wyatts off the _map_."

"We better," Roman grumbled. "I'm getting a little tired of losing."

"Dude, don't start that shit again," Seth said.

Roman shook his head. "I _wasn't_. I just meant in general. The last few months - not exactly great for us. We need this win. Get some momentum going into _Wrestlemania_ season. Remember last year? Like that."

"One thing at a time, Rome," Seth said. "Wyatts first. That's all that matters right now. We gotta get our heads in the game about that and figure it out."

Roman shot a pointed look over his shoulder. "All of us, Ambrose."

"Yeah, thanks for the newsflash, Reigns," Dean retorted.

"Knock it off," Seth growled. Mostly at Roman, but he felt like knocking both their heads together. _Again_. "After all the shit we've been through the last few days, why do you have to be like this?"

"'Cuz I sat there with you today and watched you about wear a hole in the floor," Roman said quietly, "over an asshole who didn't even have the courtesy to say he was sorry he made you worry. Considering Wyatt was on the prowl, I have to say I was pretty damn worried, too."

"I _am_ sorry about that, actually," Dean mumbled. "Didn't mean to make you worry. Just - dumbass move. I'll try to remember my phone next time."

"You better," Roman said, turning to follow Seth down the main hall. "You gotta be careful, Ambrose."

"_Okay_," Dean snapped. "Jesus, I get it."

"All right," Roman said mildly. "Okay. I just want you to be safe, man."

Seth, meanwhile, grimaced when he saw William fucking Regal down at the far end of the hall. Yet again everything that could go wrong tonight seemed to be. Regal, apparently on his way out, had his overcoat thrown over an arm and stood talking to Sheamus and Wade Barrett, both of whom were wearing their street clothes and had bags in hand.

Just like last night, Seth turned on his heel and put himself in Dean's path.

Dean nearly walked headfirst into Seth's chest, only just managing to jerk to a stop. "Jesus," he muttered, glaring. "What the fuck, Seth?"

Seth reached over to a settle hand on Dean's shoulder. "Hey, I was thinking, uh, it's been a while since you and I went out and had a drink," he said, "and I was just thinking maybe it was time we should. 'Cuz we need to talk. Like, seriously talk. Just us."

"Can't," Dean said, reaching up to brush Seth's hand away. "I got plans. And, anyway, what's there to talk about? 'Cuz if you're just gonna crawl all over my back about Regal again, I don't wanna hear it."

Seth opened his mouth to answer him, but stopped when he felt Roman's hand on his arm. Roman said, "You need to, bro. We're not trying to be assholes about this, but considering your history with that guy - and yeah, even I remember - I think we have a right to be worried."

Dean frowned up at them both. "You guys wanted me out," he said, sounding like he'd just swallowed a mouthful of broken glass, "and I'm out. So no, you don't. You don't have a right to shit anymore. Where I go, what I do, and who with – that's none of your fucking business. Not anymore. You don't get to have this both ways."

"We're not trying to," Seth said. It hurt more he wanted to admit, hearing it thrown out there like that – like 'you guys threw me aside' – and it took him a lot of effort to keep his hands at his side. To not try to reach over when a touch probably would have been shoved away.

"No, we're not," Roman said then, his voice steady and even. "It's just – bro, if it affects you, and you're affecting the team because of it, then it _is_ our business."

Seth nodded. "Regal affects you, man. He always has."

"Maybe, but that's not affecting the team," Dean said. "Know what is? You two accusing me of lying to you. Blaming me for shit that's not my fault. Acting like you got some right to my private life after you two said you wanted me out of yours. _That_ is the shit that's affecting the team where I'm standing."

"I didn't mean that," Roman said. "What I said. I know it's not your fault we lost. I don't blame you."

"And we believe you," Seth added quickly. He was still pretty sure he was going to kick Roman's ass for starting the whole 'it's your fault crap,' but he felt a little better that he didn't have to push Roman to own up to it. Made him breathe a little easier. Made it easier to say, "We just wanted to know the whole story – what happened that night. Regal being involved at all kinda threw us. You had to know it would."

"Yeah, I did," Dean said. "But I told you and I've been telling you it doesn't fucking matter. Because it doesn't. Doesn't have anything to do with anything. But you're still ganging up on me about it. You should see yourselves."

"We're _not_ ganging up on you," Seth said, but he glanced over at Roman as he did, and - yeah.

He and Roman were more-or-less standing shoulder-to-shoulder, both with their arms folded across their chest like some kind of disapproving human-

(_shield_)

-wall, Roman frowning and Seth feeling tight like a drawn bowstring.

"Sure about that?" Dean asked, eyebrows raised. "'Cuz it kinda feels that way."

"Looks it, too," a quietly accented voice said from behind them.

Seth shot Regal a glare over one shoulder. "Get out of here. This is none of your fucking business."

Regal was leaning sideways against the wall a few paces behind them, overcoat slung casually over one arm, and the other hand in his pocket. "I beg to differ, lads," he said. "I believe I've heard my name mentioned a few times. It's rather impolite to discuss someone when he's not about to defend himself. So."

Roman turned and drew himself up to his full height. "So you heard Seth, Regal. Leave."

"Not until I've said my piece," Regal said. "I doubt you'll believe me, but you lads have nothing to worry about from me where he's concerned." He nodded at Dean. "I'm not interested in playing mind games with him and I'm not bloody sick enough to want to see him slide back into his obsessions. I'm not _stupid_, lads."

"Then what the fuck do you want?' Seth asked. He didn't give a shit how rude it sounded. Regal's cold arrogant bullshit just made Seth want to punch him in his big fucking nose. "Huh? Why now? What's your deal?"

"That's not actually any of your concern," Regal said.

"Nope," Dean put in, shaking his hair out of his eyes. It had dried enough it was starting to really frizz. Made him look kind of like a mad scientist. He squared his shoulders and straightened his hoodie. "Wyatts. That's what we gotta worry about. 'Cuz Monday? It's fucking _war_. I wanna burn those motherfuckers to the ground. So let's, like, let's plan to work something up over the weekend. I'll ride with you guys. We can talk about this shit. Everything. Just - let's call it a week. Take a break. Pretty sure we all need it."

Seth forced himself to unclench his hands, to nod. Sighing, he started undoing the buckles on his vest. "I think we do, yeah," he admitted. "Shit. All right, fine. Let's call it a week, and you're goddamn right you're riding with us this weekend. I'm sick of listening Roman's weak-ass pop music."

"Hey!" Roman protested, thumping Seth's shoulder. "You were singing that Mariah Carey song, so-"

"Dude!" Seth yelped. "Don't _say_ shit like that!"

"Then don't insult my musical taste, then, ya jerk."

"You don't have musical taste, Rome," Dean said, smirking as he walked past. "We'll see you Saturday, guys."

"Keep your fucking phone on," Seth called after him.

"I will," Dean called back. He paused in front of Regal, who Seth saw actually had _two_ coats in his hand - his own overcoat and Dean's leather jacket, which he handed over.

Disquieted, still, and uneasy at the sight of those two together, Seth lowered his head and headed off toward the locker room. Roman fell into step beside him, tattooed arm finding its way around Seth's shoulders. "Maybe it is different this time," he offered softly.

"I doubt it," Seth mumbled.

He made the mistake of looking back one last time before going into the locker room.

Regal leaned close to say something in Dean's ear. Whatever he said made Dean smile - the bright one with the dimple. Dean said something back, and whatever _that_ was, it made Regal reach over and tug Dean's stocking hat down over his eyes and say, clearly, "Bloody brat," which made Dean laugh just loud enough Seth could hear it echoing quietly through the hallway.

Seth's stomach folded and twisted on itself.

But as much as he wanted to yell at them, he made himself look away, _walk_ away.

_It's none of your fuckin' business_, he reminded himself, crouching down to pull a change of clothes out of his bag.

It just wasn't.

xXx

It was so cold out _breathing_ hurt.

The snow-choked air going into his lungs felt almost like trying to inhale glass - not quite as bad as Alaska had been - but still cold enough Seth couldn't wait to get back to their hotel and step into a nice hot shower.

Wash the week away from him.

He'd never been more grateful for Roman's steady presence beside him, solid and warm, one hand on Seth's elbow to keep him from slipping on a parking lot that now felt like a fucking skating rink.

Not that Roman was much steadier on his feet, but it was the thought that counted.

They were heading to Iowa together for their days off, down to Seth's house, and he actually couldn't wait. Since they'd had the Pay-Per-View this week, that meant no house show for them until Saturday night, which meant an extra day to rest and recover, an extra day to spend doing nothing with Roman, _and_ an extra day to start making plans for the Wyatts on Monday.

The parking lot was fairly empty by now.

Roman, for whatever reason, had wanted to stick around to see the main event - the Usos and Daniel Bryan taking on Kane and the Outlaws - so after they'd changed, they'd made their way back up to the lounge room where the crew had set up monitors and they'd watched.

Nobody bothered them, which was nice.

Now, with most of the crowd cleared away and most of the crew gone, and with a lot of his stress tucked in a box in the back of his mind, Seth could admit to himself just how tired he was.

It was pretty fucking exhausting, trying to keep all those balls in the air.

Roman squeezed his arm, though, and smiled over.

It almost made Seth forget about the ass-kicking he owed the guy.

Almost.

They finally made it to the car. Roman hit the button to open the trunk and they both skidded around the car to throw their shit in, hurrying because the snow was just _fucking cold_ - even to an Iowa boy like Seth.

Roman slammed the trunk shut, and Seth turned around just in time to see Erick Rowan raising his hammer-like fists over Roman's back.

Hard to mistake a guy in fucking sheep's mask, but Seth never even had a chance to shout a warning.

Rowan's fists crashed down on Roman just as something slammed full-force into Seth's back and knocked him face-first to the frozen, snow-covered ground.

Someone's knee settled right in the middle of his shoulder blades, and a big hand covered his mouth. He struggled, but another hand grabbed him by the hair and slammed his forehead down onto the concrete hard enough to make his ears ring.

All he could do was watch, helpless and stunned, as Rowan shoved Roman headfirst into the concrete footer of the light post next to the car.

Roman fell to the ground, unmoving.

Those same big hands - Harper's, Seth realized dully - picked him and set him on his feet.

Bray Wyatt swam into Seth's field of vision, white pants and a dark coat and a white hat like some kind of inside-out Oreo cookie, and Seth snorted and squinted because something was wrong with this picture here. Too much static.

Like they had bad reception on a TV.

Or - no. No, it was snowing.

Outside.

"Well, now," Wyatt drawled. "I know we were supposed to wait to do this until Monday, but I was just so giddy with anticipation I couldn't wait."

Seth struggled against Harper's hold, but only until he caught one of Wyatt's meaty fists in the solar plexus.

He sagged, struggling to breathe the jagged air, blood roaring in his frozen ears.

Eventually, his lungs unlocked, and he managed to lift his eyes. "What do you want, Wyatt?"

"You'll see, little hound," Wyatt said softly, breath leaving vapor trails in the air. "You'll see. Soon. Give him to me, Luke."

Seth found himself summarily shoved forward. He slipped on the ice and would have fallen, if Wyatt hadn't stepped forward to catch him.

Wyatt's coat was some kind of old down thing and it smelled horrible - musty and old. Seth flinched away, but Wyatt pulled him in tight.

Seth felt himself spun around a few times in some sick parody of a dance. Try as he might, though, he couldn't coordinate his muscles enough to do much more than flail weakly. At some point, Wyatt bent him over backward, until the top of Seth's head almost touched the ground.

Dread settled like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach when he felt Wyatt's dead-cold lips on his forehead and the icy-wet scratch of a frozen beard against his nose.

He knew what was coming.

And he. Couldn't. Fight it.

The last thing Seth Rollins heard before Bray Wyatt twisted him down headfirst onto the snowy pavement was, "William Regal sends his regards."

xXx

A/N: The chapter's title quote is from Ray Bradbury's _Fahrenheit 451_.

Story title is from the A Perfect Circle song "By and Down." Been meaning to mention that. Thanks for reading.


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you, sincerely, to those who've read and reviewed this beast. Warning for non-con and general mindfuckery. This will get ugly. Enjoy.

**VII. "'Will you step into my parlor?' said the spider to the fly."**

The hotel bar was neither crowded nor empty.

It was neither posh nor particularly dumpy.

It was just a bar, bland beige wood tables and uninteresting neon beer signs scattered here and there, a few televisions playing soundless sports above an unadorned bar, no dartboards or pool tables to provide any sort of distraction, a little less than half-full, and relatively quiet - only the low murmur of conversation to fill the void spaces.

The two of them sat across a small table from one another like a couple of old chess players, sizing each other up over their drinks: a beer in a green glass bottle for Ambrose and a glass of scotch and soda for Regal.

(More for politeness's sake on Regal's part; the bottle (among other things) had bitten him hard enough years ago to leave some nasty scars - several of which, like his estrangement from most of his family and many of his mates, were of the permanent variety, and far worse than any he'd ever sustained in the ring. Almost ten years after he'd climbed out of the bottom of the barrel, he still had to remind himself to be careful.

Especially considering he who he sat across from right now.)

Nothing said as yet, just sly, slanted looks passed between them, Ambrose's eyes narrowed but bright with mischief and amusement, one corner of his mouth pulled up, and Regal sat back and mirroring.

Thrill of the chase, and so on, and he was already enjoying himself.

Eventually, Ambrose slid his beer bottle forward - _pawn to e4_ - and folded his forearms on the table.

Regal picked up his glass - _pawn to e5_ - but didn't drink.

"So," Ambrose said then, "hypothetically speaking, if Cena and Wyatt _did_ ever lock up, who do you got?"

"Hmm." Regal took a small sip and set the glass back down. As openers went, it wasn't quite what he'd expected, but he supposed he could work with it. "In an ideal world, they'd destroy one another. That's the only _good_ outcome. Everything else is lose-lose. One wins, and the other is still bloody _here_. The cancer and the monster. Still, having said that, in a one-on-one fight, I'll take Cena every time."

Ambrose frowned at that. "Why?"

Inclining his head, Regal sat back. "Think about it," he said. "You tell me."

"Uh." Ambrose's fingers idly skimmed his bicep in slow circles, and Regal caught himself wondering if Ambrose was even aware he was doing it. Ambrose continued to frown down at the table, looking a bit like a pupil who'd been given a particularly difficult logic problem to work out. Finally, without looking up, he said, "I mean, the easy answer is 'cuz he's Cena and he's like fuckin' Superman. But I don't think that's what you mean."

"Not exactly, no."

"Well, I mean, he's _Cena_, right?" Ambrose picked up his beer and sat back, eyebrows still pinched together. He took a drink and glanced at Regal. "He's fake. Like, all that good shit he does, it ain't 'cuz he's trying to be a good guy, even though he plays like he is. And, like, he's gotta _know_ people know that. Like Wyatt and whatever. Right? I mean, I know he's got a head like a block of wood, but he can't be that deaf."

Regal smiled slowly. "Go on."

"So he plays on that. Throws out the shit jokes and acts like he doesn't give a fuck. But, like, I've seen him really watching people. You know? Like he watches matches and he's - oh. Yeah. Okay. So while somebody like Wyatt is going after the shit Cena _wants_ him to, Cena's figuring Wyatt out for real."

"Exactly," Regal said, nodding. "Cena's no fool. He's been around long enough to know how to play the game on his own terms. He'll let Wyatt play his mind games, but when the time comes, he'll have Wyatt scouted so well you'll wonder why Wyatt even bothered climbing into the ring."

"Yeah," Ambrose said, "if it's just Wyatt." He took another long drink of his beer, burped quietly into his fist, and then set the bottle down again, elbows coming to rest on the table behind it. "But if those two inbred hillbilly assholes get involved, that's gotta change the odds."

"That it does. So I suppose the question for Cena is whether or not he can have them barred from ringside. Which I reckon he can. And, of course, that's even assuming you and your mates leave anything left of the Wyatts to make it that far."

Ambrose's whole expression darkened. "Not fuckin' happenin," he muttered. "I swear to God, if we have to tear the whole building down to end this war Monday, we will."

"You're likely going to have to," Regal said. "I rather doubt he'll stop."

"I know. He's a sick fuck, isn't he – which coming from me is saying something." Before Regal could answer that, Ambrose snapped his fingers and said, "Oh, hey, speaking of sick, I meant to ask you - you see his fuckin' neck today?" He ghosted fingers over the side of his own in unconscious imitation. "All cut up and shit. The fuck do you think happened there?"

"Ah, yes, I was planning to mention that," Regal said, running a finger around the rim of his glass. Not nervous, exactly, but conscious this might not go over terribly well. "I paid him a visit before the show this evening. Since he saw us together this afternoon, I thought it best just to let him know that I'm aware of what's going on. I did warn him off while I was there, but I doubt it mattered. Seems rather set on bringing you over to his side, which…" He shook his head, frowning. "Considering what he did to you, I'm not exactly sure how he expects to accomplish that. By force, I reckon, but even then…"

"Even then," Ambrose said, voice gone clear and cold, "first chance I had, I'd rip his goddamn throat out."

"I did tell him that." Regal glanced up and found brilliant eyes watching him intently from across the table, and for once, Ambrose was still, leaned forward as if he was hanging on every word. "It barely registered. Seems he's rather set on this notion you won't be able to stand on your own if your mates aren't there to prop you up."

"The _fuck_? I don't need anybody to fuckin' prop me up."

"I know that." Regal took another small sip. "But you can see where he got that idea, can't you? The way you've been struggling in the ring lately, the way it seems you're more interested in proving you're better than Reigns than actually winning, all the in-fighting between you and your mates. Even I've noticed you haven't seemed quite yourself in some time - letting yourself become distracted by things that ultimately don't matter. Which is a recurring problem for you."

He kept his tone factual, almost apologetic, aiming more to inform than upset.

The jabs hit their mark anyway, as anger chased hurt across Ambrose's face. Fingers that had fallen still began scratching his biceps again. A slow flush spread up his neck like lava inching away from a volcano's mouth. His jaw worked, but not a sound came out.

It was still just as satisfying now as it had been two years ago, seeing that flicker of wounded pride.

The part of Regal that still remembered the weeks of horrible nausea and headaches and dizziness in the wake of their last FCW match was tempted to revel in it, to gloat, to _laugh_.

Knowing he still had it in him to cut Ambrose deep - probably deeper than anyone not named Rollins or Reigns, which was itself debatable - was rather a rather heady feeling.

The rest of Regal, though, the bigger part of him, had already licked those wounds clean long ago, and now chided himself for even entertaining the idea of settling for such a cheap, quick victory when there was a better one to be had in a few more moves.

He looked pointedly around the half-full bar and leaned forward, making and holding eye contact with the boy, who was still clearly struggling to come up with something to say. "Take a breath, lad," Regal told him, voice pitched low. "I know there's a lot of bad history between us, but I didn't mean it like that. I was only telling you what I've seen. It's exactly what Wyatt's seeing. Difference is, I know what you're actually capable of. He doesn't."

Wonder of wonders, Ambrose pulled in a few breaths, nostrils flaring while he made a visible effort to calm down_. _The scratching slowed, but didn't quite stop. Eventually, he unclenched his jaw enough to grind out, "He doesn't know shit about me. And neither do you."

"I think I know a little," Regal said. "Considering. Even if we haven't been around each other much recently, it doesn't mean I haven't been watching."

Ambrose gave him a narrow look. "You've been watching."

"Of course I have," Regal said. "I watch everything. It's part of my job."

"Right. Your job." A fist knocked lightly against the side of the table. "Probably been laughing your ass off along with everyone else, right?"

"Part of me was, I suppose," Regal admitted. "I won't lie and say I haven't gotten any satisfaction out of seeing you stumble, but for the most part I've been...baffled, I suppose. You've fallen so far away from who you were in Florida that I barely recognize you some days. All that talent and potential, and I haven't seen it put to much use. As I said - and, again, not to upset you - you've seemed more set on trying to prove you're better than Reigns than anything."

Ambrose snatched up his beer and drained half of it in a long gulp. He wiped his mouth on the heel of his hand and thumped the bottle back down. This time, he sat back and folded his arms over his chest. "I _am_ better than him."

"I know," Regal said simply.

There was a pause. Ambrose, eyebrows pulled together again, seemed to be waiting for more. Regal merely looked at him, and Ambrose looked back, warily. "I _am_."

"I know."

"Do you?" A clear challenge.

"You're stumbling a bit right now, admittedly, but in a match, I'll take your cunning and resilience over Reigns' brute strength any day." That much was true. "You're far more experienced and far less predictable. As long as you avoided the big punch and the spear, I'm sure you'd find a way to win."

Blinking like someone had just woken him up, Ambrose closed his mouth. His Adam's apple bobbed.

"I don't even know why it's a question," Regal said. He took another slow sip of his drink, letting it roll around his mouth a bit before he swallowed it. "I really don't."

Ambrose's tongue flicked out along his lower lip. "'Cuz everyone says-"

"Oh, everyone says, do they?" Regal cut him off, not even bothering to let Ambrose finish _that_ stupid statement. "Since when the bloody hell do you care what anyone says? When have you ever cared what anyone says?"

"I - don't, but, like, I _hear_ shit and it - yeah, it fuckin' bothers me." One hand clenched on the table, white knuckles and taught tendons, while the other scratched at the fabric covering his elbow. "Mean, I know, okay? Roman's a fucking star. I know that. He's gonna go all the way to fuckin' top. And that's - it's, like, it's good. Good for him. He's – I mean, clearly he's good. And he deserves it. But for people to fucking sit there and say _I'm_ the one holding him back? I'm holding the _team_ back? Gimme a fuckin' break."

Regal nodded. "They've got it the other way 'round, haven't they? It's not you holding them back. It's you being held back. The pair of them tugging on your leash."

A quick flick of a look, all bright blue eyes like sunlight glinting on steel. "Yeah. And what's funny? Wyatt said the fucking thing to me yesterday. How Seth and Roman are pulling the leash so tight it's strangling me."

"Dogs, hounds, leashes - hardly a unique metaphor," Regal said dismissively. "Anyone who looks can see it. The point still stands."

"So, what, you think I should walk? Turn my back on my brothers? Wyatt thinks so."

"That's where we differ," Regal said. He polished off the last of his scotch and set the glass down. "I think you should walk away, but there's no need for you to be naughty about it - unless you want to. Free yourself of those distractions and then go do whatever you like. Do it your way, say things the way you want to, be who you are - not who anyone else wants you to. You don't need anyone standing over your shoulder telling you what to do."

"No," Ambrose said, eyes narrowing again. "No, I don't."

Regal waved him off. "But if you want to stay, then stay. I wouldn't think any less of you for choosing to stay loyal to your mates – in spite of what it's doing to your career, and despite the fact they haven't shown you much loyalty lately. Do whatever is in that maze of a brain of yours to do. Because all this-" he made some vague, all-encompassing gesture with a hand "-is just my opinion. It's pretty meaningless, push come to shove."

There was a bit of a pause before Ambrose shook his head and reached for his beer again. He drained the last of it, pushed the bottle away, and propped his chin up on his fists. He looked a bit tired all of a sudden. "Maybe," he eventually said. "Maybe not."

"Well, I suppose before you rush into anything, you ought to focus on Wyatt."

"I am. I will, I mean. This weekend. When me and the guys ride together, we'll - I mean, we'll figure it out. Figure something out." A lazy flick of one hand. "I just - I gotta ask, what the fuck are _you_ doing? Like, you went and saw Wyatt. Why? I don't need you to fight my battles for me."

"No, you don't," Regal said, "but as he saw me with you earlier, I thought I'd best let him know _I_ am not to be trifled with. That was more what it was about, although, yes, I did warn him off. As I said, I don't think it did much good, but one can hope."

"Huh," Ambrose grunted. "And trying to get me to walk away from Seth and Roman? What's that all about?"

"Makes it easier for me to take advantage of you, of course," Regal said, straight-faced. "Get you alone and vulnerable, prey on you because you're so weak you need someone strong and masterly to take control of you. Twist you around for my own sinister purposes. Make you do all manner of naughty things."

Ambrose's eyes actually went a bit cloudy at that. The corners of his mouth twitched. "Kinky."

"You like that?"

"Uh, well, I mean, the whole 'masterly' thing was kinda much, but - I swear to God I never said this - but that was actually kinda hot."

"Hot." Regal tried not to smile - really tried - but failed miserably. "Think so, do you?"

"In a 'that will never happen' kinda way, yeah."

"It might," Regal felt compelled to point out. "If you lost the bet, that might very well happen."

It might have been a trick of the light or just his imagination, but Regal could have sworn he saw color in Ambrose's cheeks. Ambrose cleared his throat, pushed a hand through his hair, swallowed. "Uh. Yeah. Uh, anyway, getting back to Seth and Roman – quit tryin' to distract me, you asshole."

Chuckling, Regal said, "Yes, yes, yes. Is it so inconceivable to you I want you to succeed? I spoke rather highly of you to a lot of people while you were in Florida, as you'll recall. I'm still hoping you'll prove me right. Getting you away from what's distracting you is a start."

"Highly of me?" Ambrose snorted. "Fuck, Regal, those first few weeks, I was amazed you didn't climb over the announce table and hump my leg. Or, you know, get stuck to the chair after you blew your load on air."

Regal kicked his shin. "Says the man who practically jumped me in his locker room."

Ambrose smiled, but the fingers that reached for his beer bottle seemed hesitant, slow, pausing halfway before finally reaching out to take it. "So what's with the bet?"

"I don't know," Regal admitted, shrugging. "Make things a bit more interesting, I suppose. Bit of fun."

"Oh." Nothing more, nothing less. Just _oh_. The Mona Lisa gave away more in her smile.

"Speaking of," Regal said then, "shall we head up? Or did you want another drink? More talking?"

"Fuck _no_," Ambrose said. "No more talking." His chair scraped obnoxiously over the tiled floor. "Let's go. I'm dying to see you lose."

Regal paused in the act of rising. "I won't."

"Yeah, you will."

"No, I won't. D'you know why?"

Ambrose folded his arms over his chest. "Why?"

Regal stepped very close and leaned forward to speak directly into Ambrose's ear. "Because, my dear boy, I know your dirty little secret: you're going to lose because you _want_ to. The idea of letting me have my way with you for a night - oh, it gets your blood boiling, doesn't it? Makes your heart race. Why could I _possibly_ do to you? Hmm? You want to know, don't you? So very badly."

He stepped away suddenly, not waiting for an answer.

A quick glance over his shoulder showed Ambrose still standing with one limp hand on the chair, his face slack, and his eyes fogged over.

Regal chuckled all the way to the elevator.

_Check and mate, lad_.

xXx

To his credit, the boy didn't make it easy, but eventually, he caved.

His eyes had nearly rolled back into his head, expression nothing but one sheer bliss, mouth sprung open, hands white-knuckling the duvet cover beside him. He was bucking and jerking under Regal, even with his ankles locked as they were around Regal's back.

Regal himself was buried to the hilt in that wonderful, tight heat, hair a sweat-matted curtain over his forehead, gasping and sweat-drenched and fairly dying to get off, hanging on by just a thread, one hand lightly squeezing Ambrose's throat and the other working Ambrose's cock in short, sharp little bursts - rapidly and tight, then slowing until Ambrose started moving against him, impatient and eager for more friction.

"Fuck," Ambrose panted, voice squeezed and thin. "Ohgodfuckjesus."

"Say it," Regal grated at him.

"No," Ambrose gasped back. "No fuckin' way."

"Then you don't come," Regal said, surging forward hard enough to make the headboard crack smartly against the wall. He was going to be bloody sore in the morning, he was sure, long as they'd been at this, but at the moment, he profoundly did not care. It had been far too long since he'd been able to have sex like this, unrestrained and without worry he was going to hurt his partner. He wasn't about to stop now. "Bloody _say it_."

"Oh fuck. Fu-huuuuck. I gotta - y'gotta...fuckin' let me come. Shit. I'm gonna…"

Regal stopped moving all at once - removed both hands and, even though it made him hiss at the loss of contact, pulled himself all the way out. "No," he said, sitting up on his knees. "No, you're not."

He took hold of Ambrose's damp hair and yanked his head up to force eye contact, ignoring . "Just say it. Say it and I'll finish you off. We both know you want to anyway, so stop being stubborn. Give me what I want and I'll give you what you want."

Ambrose batted Regal's hand away, weakly, then thumped his head back against the pillow, glassy eyes half-lidded and unreadable. "You're an asshole. And you better not fucking gloat. But fine. You win. Please, oh fucking please would you just finish me off already?"

Regal raised eyebrows at him. "That sounded more like a demand than you actually begging."

"Jesus fuck, I fucking said it, didn't I?"

"I think you can do better."

"Yeah, or I can just fucking finish myself off." Ambrose's hand strayed toward his still-erect cock.

"Get your hand away," Regal said, all dry authority. "Put it back where it was."

Ambrose's hand practically leapt back onto the duvet. He went very still, eyes widening.

Regal took hold of himself and lined back up, pushing forward slowly and smoothly until he was buried all the way in again. Slick as he was, as Ambrose was, it was easy.

Ambrose's head fell back onto the pillows again, and he made a quiet, almost helpless sound - a choked curse or a groan - that made Regal smile and swoop down for one more quick, hard kiss, one that was more teeth than anything - a light tug of Ambrose's bottom lip.

Regal rolled his hips. "Say it again," he rumbled into Ambrose's ear. "One more time, and I'll finish you."

Ambrose's hands wandered up from the mattress to latch together around the back of Regal's neck. "Fuck," he muttered, wincing. "You're killin' me here, Regal. I'm gonna fuckin' _die_. But fine. Please finish me off. Please? I can't-"

Regal cut him off with a hand over his mouth. "Shush. D'you want…?" He lifted his other hand back to Ambrose's throat. "Like that?"

A foggy sort of nod.

Smiling, Regal squeezed a bit and moved his other hand down.

And thought, _Checkmate_, as he squeezed with one hand and stroked with the other and watched through slitted eyes as Ambrose absolutely came apart, body bucking again and all manner of wonderfully strangled noises coming from him and his face dark red.

The look on his face when he finally went over was one of sheer, blissful relief.

_Check bloody mate_, Regal thought again, and raced to his own end.

xXx

After they washed up, they collapsed back down on the bed together, Ambrose on his stomach with both arms folded under his chin and Regal on his back with his arms tucked behind his head - not unlike the way they'd started out this morning.

Amazing, Regal reflected, yawning, the difference twenty-four hours made.

From 'no,' to being so bloody shagged out neither of them could properly keep their eyes open.

Best kind of truce there was, honestly., especially given what now lay ahead for them in Florida.

And, good lord, the possibilities...

Ambrose yawned widely himself, turning to rest his cheek on his forearms. "C'n hear you thinkin' still," he mumbled. "Why're you thinkin?"

Regal offered a crooked smile. "I'm really not," he said. "Mostly just trying to decide what I want to do with you while we're in Florida. As my prize. I've an awful lot of ideas."

"Asshole."

"A victorious one, though," Regal said smugly.

"Told you not to gloat."

"I'm not. I'm _savoring_. I don't win very often these days."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You're still an asshole. What're you gonna do?"

"Not sure yet. Right now, I'm thinking I might stick you in drag; or tie you up and torment you for hours on end - nothing horribly painful, but I can assure you it'd be more than a tickle; or perhaps something along the lines of just having sex with you on basically every available surface of my flat. I'd need the whole week for that, though."

There was a noticeable pause before Ambrose cleared his throat. "Well, I mean, you could - uh, you could have the week. For that. If you wanted. Um. The tying me up thing could, uh, that - um. Could be, like, fun, but you can't, like, leave marks or anything where anybody could see, if that's what you're talking about. And the drag thing? Only if I get, like, giant fake tits and a skanky dress. 'Cuz I'm gonna be an ugly fuckin' woman anyway, right? So might as well at least have big tits show how for it."

"You'd want to play with them yourself all night."

"Oh, totally."

"So you're all right with any of those options."

"Yep," Ambrose said easily. "Whatever."

Regal eyed him warily. "You're taking this better than I thought."

"Yeah, well, maybe you weren't wrong earlier," Ambrose mumbled into his forearms.

"I'm sorry, did you just say I was right about something?"

Ambrose turned away to flick the lamp off. "G'night, asshole."

Regal smirked, closed his eyes. "Good night, rotten bastard."

Despite all his exertions, his mind buzzed and hummed in a way he thought meant he'd probably lie awake a while, but exhaustion soon sank its claws in and tugged him down in a deep and dreamless sleep.

xXx

Dark.

It was so dark.

Hot, too, and hard to breathe.

Seth groaned and forced his eyes open halfway. Tried to. Bright, silvery pain sparked like lightning behind his eyes, and he slammed them shut again, groaning softly.

Whatever was making it hot and hard to breathe was pulled away from his face.

Dim light assaulted his eyes.

He held up a hand to fend it off.

Felt like he had the mother of all hangovers - his mouth sticky and dry, his head throbbing, and his stomach feeling shriveled and like it wanted to eject whatever it ate earlier.

"Fuck, Rome," he mumbled fuzzily, "what'd we _do_ last night?"

Probably Dean had gotten them drunk - again.

The dick.

Someone laughed nearby, a quiet chuckle that thwacked against the inside of Seth's skull like a mallet. "Oh, little hound, I'm insulted," someone said, the words a rolling drawl that wasn't Dean's smoker's rasp or Roman's heavy baritone. "You've forgotten our special night already. How _could _you?"

With an effort, Seth lifted his head. Opened his eyes a little - enough.

Wyatt was a blurry figure in a dark corner of the room, rocking in a chair.

Memory hit like a wrecking ball crashing into the side of his head: being knocked out in the parking lot. And - fuck. Seth tried to look around, but suddenly realized something was holding him in place: his wrists arms were straight down between his knees, and tied tight to his ankles. He'd been laid out on his side, and couldn't do much to look around.

"Oh, he ain't in here," Wyatt said then, rocking away. "Your brother-hound is sawin' logs in the back of your car at the moment. And as long as you're an obedient little pup for me right now, there's no reason he can't stay there, safe and sound - nothin' worse than a little headache for his trouble. Whaddya say?"

"Fuck d'you want, Wyatt?" Seth asked muzzily.

"Not me who wants anything," Wyatt replied. He pulled his hat off and tossed it aside. "I'm doing this on behalf of a mutual acquaintance of ours. William Regal."

_William Regal sends his regards_.

The whole room seemed to be spinning, slow and lazy, like it was on some kind of carousel at a carnival. Seth could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. His hands were cold, and felt prickly, like they'd fallen asleep, tied as tightly as they were. When he shifted, it occurred to him he was on a bed, he realized, as mattress springs squeaked at him.

_William Regal sends his regards_.

"Fuck," he finally croaked, giving up on getting comfortable. "What does he want?"

"He already got it, little hound," Wyatt said, a smile in his voice. "Your so-called Lunatic Fringe."

"Dean?"

"Yes, indeed," Wyatt said. Harper and Rowan suddenly swam into Seth's line of sight, moving to stand on either side of Wyatt's rocking chair. "Down in Florida last year, my boys had a minor indiscretion. Nothing serious, but the sort of thing people like Triple H and Dusty Rhodes wouldn't have looked too kindly on. Regal found out about it, but offered to keep his silence in exchange for a favor to be called in at a time of his choosing.

"Last week, he came to us to call it in. He wanted us to corner Ambrose and hurt him. I am nothing if not a man of my word, so did that very thing the other night. Took him outside during our match. Knocked him out. Went back for him and tied him up so he couldn't get away. And I hurt him - badly - while Regal watched from the shadows, smiling.

"He _smiled_ while I raped your brother."

Seth froze, mind in absolute freefall, lost somewhere between sick denial - _no, no way_ - and disbelief and absolute horror.

"You're lying," he heard himself say, voice all rusty nails and ground glass. "That didn't happen."

"You saw the marks on his neck, didn't you?" Wyatt asked, voice sliding snake-like across the room. "Everyone saw them. 'That Ambrose,' they said. 'Big a whore as his mother.' He was such a good little lamb for me while I made those, docile and unresisting. Of course, Regal had me threaten the two of you to keep him from fighting me. It worked, too. Gentled him right down. He gave it up like the whore he is, and Regal just smiled. And it worked, didn't it? Ambrose fell right into his arms, ready to give it up to _him_."

There was a twist in those words, almost a snarl, but Seth was too shocky-blank to really register it properly.

His mind's eye, that fucking traitor, kept pushing forward that image of the pale cold of Regal's eyes while he'd stared down Seth and Roman earlier. The way Dean couldn't seem to see anything - anyone - else. The way they'd smiled at each other after Regal tugged Dean's hat down over his eyes.

_He smiled while I raped your brother_.

And, oh God, it made Seth just sick at heart to think about it.

He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to anything listening this was just some kind of fucked up bad dream, that he'd open his eyes and be back in bed with Roman while Dean slept on the hotel room's other bed.

But nobody was listening.

When he opened his eyes, he was still in the same cramped, dimly-lit hotel room, and Wyatt and his boys were still in the corner - Wyatt rocking away in his white pants and tan hat and red flower-print shirt, and the other two in their usual grungy clothes - just watching him.

"I'll fucking kill you," Seth finally managed, the words coming out of some cold place in his heart. "You're a dead man, Wyatt."

"We're all dead men, little hound," Wyatt said laughing. "We are born dying. But it won't be you who pushes me to that end. No, indeed, I have a long and prosperous road ahead of me - for me and my family. You and yours, you're nothing but speed bumps on my road to John Cena. Ashes in my wake, as you put it."

"Then what the fuck do you want?"

"From you? I want nothing at all. Regal's the one with the old grudge. He's the one who asked me to take you and Reigns and confess what we did. He wants to gloat. I don't know exactly what his plan for your boy - your _former_ boy - is, but I don't think it'll end in happily ever after." His rocking slowed down. "This is nothing more than Regal throwing it your face, and us being the vessel through which he's accomplishing that end."

Despite everything, Seth threw back his head and laughed. "Don't shoot the messenger? Is that what you're seriously telling me?"

"In so many words, yes."

"Fuck you, Wyatt." Seth pulled against the ropes, but that only made them tighten. "We're gonna bury you on Monday."

"We'll see about that." The rocking slowed. "There's one other thing, one last thing Regal asked us to do. To you both. The same thing I did to Ambrose. Just as a 'fuck you' to you two." Wyatt laughed again. "Literally."

Seth's pulse shot through the ceiling. "No," he said, struggling harder. "Don't."

"How about a deal, then? We'll let you out of those ropes if you'll go to your knees before us and put that mouth of yours to work. You take care of Luke and Erick real good and that'll be the end of it. We won't drag Reigns in here and make you watch what we do to him with this." He reached over for what looked like a souvenir miniature baseball bat that had some kind of wire - barbed or razor - wrapped around it. "What do you say?"

"Don't do this, Wyatt," Seth said. "Just let us go."

Wyatt settled his hat back on his head and got to his feet. He stalked slowly across the room like some kind of large cat stalking its prey, not stopping until he reached the edge of the bed. Kneeling, he looked Seth right in the eyes. "Tell you the truth, little hound, we don't want to do this at all. We want no part in this business. I _hate_ William Regal. He's a bad man, and if we didn't owe him, we wouldn't be here now. We'd much rather be on our way home. But since we're here, you should know - you and Reigns - it'll be Ambrose we go hardest after on Monday. Regal wants us to, but Ambrose deserves it for being weak-minded enough to fall right back into the arms of a man he knows has it out for him. You and Reigns, you'd be better off letting it happen. Letting Regal have what he wants, not getting mixed up in it. Let Ambrose fall by the way. You two don't need him, anyway. Certainly don't want him - do you?"

Seth said nothing. Refused to let himself be goaded into answering.

Wyatt snapped out a hand and tangled it in Seth's hair, tight and painful. He yanked Seth's head back. "_Do_ you? You and Reigns, you've paired off. Rightly. You make a handsome couple. Even better now that you're not carrying that extra weight. If I were you boys, I'd let Ambrose drown. It'd be the most humane thing to do."

_He smiled while I raped your brother_.

"Get your fuckin hands off me," Seth snarled. His eyes had begun to water from the way Wyatt had a hold of his hair. "Let me go. Don't fuckin' touch me."

Wyatt leaned in close, close enough Seth could feel the scratch of his beard, could smell the rotten meat stench of his breath. "Should we bring Reigns in here instead, then? Make you watch my boys take him instead?"

"No!" Seth's heart felt like it was slamming against the inside of his chest. "Don't you touch him."

Wyatt's mouth curved again, right against Seth's cheek. "Then on your knees or on your back - one way or the other, you're going to give my boys the reward I promised them."

Seth sent up a desperate prayer that Roman or somebody would kick the door down and get him out of this mess, but once again it fell on deaf ears.

He swallowed.

"Fucking untie me."

"Back or knees?"

"Knees. Hurry the fuck up. Let's get this shit over with.'

Wyatt kissed his cheek. It was all Seth could do to keep from gagging. "Just remember two things, little hound: you wouldn't be in this situation if not for Regal and Ambrose, and if you fight or bite or try to run once we let you go, you'll get the bat. Understood?"

Seth glared at him best he could. "I won't. Why the fuck are you still talking?"

Another kiss, this one on the mouth, and then Wyatt pushed away, chuckling. "Good boy."

Turning his head, Seth spat on the moldy blue bedspread, trying to get the feel and taste of Wyatt away from him.

"Get him untied, boys," Wyatt said, resuming his place in his chair. "He's all yours."

Seth closed his eyes and tried to think about nothing but the snow outside.

xXx

It was horrible.

Wyatt sat in the corner, humming, while Harper and Rowan stripped Seth naked. They pushed him back and forth between them the same way they had outside the ring last night, from one to the other and back, in a horrid mix of textures and rough touches and tastes. He gagged and choked and at one point nearly passed out from lack of oxygen. A hard slap across the face brought him back, made his eye water, fucking infuriated him to the point he almost bit down on what Rowan stuffed in his mouth.

_Roman_, he reminded himself.

He'd cut off his own foot before he let them have at Roman.

So he fucking did it, finishing the job with his eyes closed and his mind on getting Roman the fuck out of here. After it was all over, he raced into the disgusting little bathroom, went back to his knees over the toilet and threw up - violently, stomach just _heaving_ with a sudden, desperate need to get rid of what he just had to swallow.

The bile burned his throat, but he'd take that taste any day.

Any fucking day of the week.

Shaking still (the little bathroom was cold and he was still naked), he climbed to his feet and moved to cup water into his hand. He glanced at himself in the mirror: wide, starey eyes, hair a mess from being grabbed and tugged, one cheek slapped red.

His head throbbed and his stomach felt about as shriveled up as a raisin, but he was okay otherwise.

Alive, anyway.

Ready to get Roman.

Ready to go find Dean.

Ready to murder Regal and the whole fucking Wyatt family.

But mostly just ready to get the fuck out of here.

He snagged a towel off the rack and wrapped it around his waist. It wasn't big enough - not by half, but he twisted it to cover his junk and held it closed against his waist.

But when he got back into the room, he found it empty.

The Wyatts had disappeared, just as completely as if they'd never been there. Which was just creepy as hell: they'd even taken their rocking chair with them.

All that remained was a set of rental car keys on the dresser.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Seth reached for his shirt and began to dress.

xXx

He found Roman in the trunk of the car, tied up in the same uncomfortable knees-to-wrists way Seth himself had been. Roman was wide awake and hot-eyed enough he probably could have melted steel.

Didn't look like he'd been touched.

"Hang on," Seth said, reaching for one knot. "I'm gonna get you out of there."

"What. Happened?" Roman asked, deep voice gruff. The menace was somewhat undercut by how hard he was shivering: it was frigid out, snow pounding down fast and furious, and even if the trunk had provided protection against that, it didn't have any heat.

"I'll explain here in a minute," Seth said, his own teeth chattering. He fumbled one knot undone and reached for the second. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Roman said, rolling his wrist. "My head hurts, but I'm fine. Are you?"

Seth's thick, stupid fingers managed to untie the second knot. "I'm not hurt."

He stood back while Roman stretched himself out and finally climbed out of the trunk. The big man rolled his shoulder, popped his neck, and raised his arms to the sky. Then he stepped forward and settled hands on Seth's shoulders. "You're not hurt," he said. "But are you okay?"

_No,_ Seth tried to say. _No, I'm not._

But his throat was suddenly so tight he couldn't say a fucking thing, so he threw his arms around Roman's shoulders, burying his face against the cold side of Roman's neck as the snow rushed down around them from a bruised purple sky.

xXx

A/N: Chapter title is from the poem "The Spider and the Fly." I feel it's relevant. (BTW - I wouldn't trust what Wyatt told Seth here. All I'm saying.) Thanks for reading.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Thanks, as ever, to all you lovely readers and reviewers! Lateral movement this time, rather than forward. Some Ambrollins backstory. Enjoy.

**VIII. Patches**

_Early November, 2012 - I_

"_Dude, no," Seth said from his side of the bed._

_Early November evening in an Orlando hotel bed. Heyman hadn't wanted to meet with them in Tampa (dude was paranoid somebody would figure out what he was up to), so he'd had Seth, Dean, and Roman all make the drive to Orlando._

"_Why?" Dean asked. He tossed some popcorn into his mouth and chewed on it in the most obnoxious way he could._

_Deliberately. Because he was a jerk._

_Seth slugged him in the arm. "Close your fucking mouth. And because. That's why."_

"_Come on," Dean wheedled, propping up on one elbow. "You said you wanted to try a threesome."_

"_I said maybe. Sometime. And definitely not with _a straight guy _we work with."_

_Dean shook his head. "Not straight. Bi."_

_Seth sat up on both elbows, eyes narrowing. "How do you know?"_

"_He told me today." Dean tossed a piece of popcorn in the air and caught it in his mouth. "Well. I mean, I got it out of him. Might not've been, like, completely voluntary, but…"_

"_What did you do?"_

"_Me? Nothing." Dean was all mock innocence. "I caught him checking you out at the gym this morning, so I all walked by and I was like, 'Got a nice ass, doesn't he?' And gets all flustered, like, 'What? No, dude. I wasn't looking.' All macho straight guy shit or whatever. And I'm like, 'It's cool, but you __know me and him are a thing, right?' He didn't. Said he doesn't pay attention to rumors and shit. But then he goes, 'So you're gay, then? You two.' I was like, 'Nope. Definitely wrecked our fair share of pussy, too.' And he goes, 'Oh.' And I went, 'Guessing that's you, too.' He goes, 'You could say that.' So there you go. Definitely not totally straight."_

_Seth tucked his hands behind his head, thinking. "You like him?"_

"_I mean, he's - okay. Like chill and shit. Definitely the, y'know, strong, silent type. Hot as fuck, too."_

"_Tall, dark, and handsome," Seth mused._

"_See? Even you think so. Dude looks like he could go like a fucking champ."_

"_Yeah, he does," Seth admitted, reached over to trace the new muscles on Dean's stomach. "But, yeah, I dunno about that one."_

_Seth and Dean had hooked up first about a year ago - trading angry blowjobs in the FCW parking lot not long after Dean had had his first match with Regal, and right before after Antonio Cesaro decided to screw with Seth. Dean had actually stopped to warn Seth that Cesaro was gunning for him, which Seth had not only found weird, but thought was complete bullshit. He'd actually decked Dean, but that seemed to make the guy even more determined to make Seth listen. They'd gone round and round until almost midnight, yelling and kicking the crap out of each other, and basically just behaving like a couple of assholes, getting all the old animosity and shit out of their systems in a way that Dean at one point said probably would've given Dusty a fucking stroke._

_And it was that - Dean doing a ridiculously good impression of Dusty - that _finally _snapped the tension, and they both fell against Seth's car, laughing and bloody and fucking exhausted and Seth couldn't fucking remember who kissed who first, but he remembered shoving Dean away, so it was probably Dean who did. And it was definitely Dean who kissed him the second time, hard and fast, crushing and bruising, and this time Seth didn't push him away._

_First of many he didn't back away from - no matter how many times and how many ways he told himself he should._

_Dean had cost him the FCW 15 title last month and had been nothing but a constant thorn in his side from day fucking one, and all Seth wanted to do - all he should have done - was kick Dean's ass from here 'til next month._

_But instead, he kissed back - adrenaline high and punch-drunk - and didn't say no when Dean's hands scrambled to free his dick, and _definitely _didn't say no when, after Seth stood up and leaned back against the car, Dean sucked him off like a goddamn champ._

_He never said no._

_Because he was an idiot._

_But he never said no._

xXx

William Regal wasn't so much pulled out of sleep as he was ejected from it - thrown out of a gentle dream of days gone by straight into a living nightmare.

Dim light in the room.

A hand clamped down around his throat.

A bony knee dug into his sternum.

The burning, rage-filled eyes of a madman hovering inches above his own.

Bared teeth - a feral dog at its most territorially nasty.

"Wake the fuck _up_," Ambrose snarled at him. Unshaven and with his hair sticking up in about a dozen directions, he looked like a crazed serial killer. "Wake up, you fucking piece of shit."

Regal squinted up at him, nonplussed, too sleep-foggy and taken aback to do anything but.

"You think I wouldn't find out, you son of a bitch?" Ambrose shifted, digging the knee not on Regal's chest into Regal's side. "Huh? Why did you do it? _Why_? Was it some sick fucking joke? Do you fucking hate me that bad? Huh?"

The hand on Regal's throat squeezed.

Fighting a wave of panic, Regal slipped one of his own hands out from under the covers and gripped Ambrose's wrist, fingernails biting into the soft skin right over the vein. He managed to squeeze out, "What're you talking about?"

"Like you don't fucking _know_." Spittle blabbered from Ambrose's lips. He was almost literally foaming at the mouth. "Don't tell me you don't know. Don't fucking lie to me. You know. You know. You fucking _know_." He shoved something toward Regal's face. Regal flinched but relaxed, fractionally, when he saw it was only Ambrose's phone. "_This_, you fucking bastard. _This_."

Regal let go of Ambrose's wrist - he'd loosened his grip on Regal's throat just enough Regal didn't quite feel like his eyeballs were going to pop out - to push the phone's glowing screen back enough he could see it properly.

There were several text messages, all screaming black letters on a remorseless white background.

_keep ur damn phone on!_ read the first. The name at the top of the screen said 'Seth.'

The next block of text read: _wyatt jumped us after sd & told us what he did to you. said Regal told him to. owed Regal a favor. said Regal watched him hurt you. Regal behind all of it. you need to get away. call me asap so I know your ok._

Regal's stomach sank.

Ambrose swiped his thumb across the screen. His eyes were practically shooting sparks, the whites around his irises practically glowing. "There's more. Keep reading." He shoved the phone forward again.

The name at the top had changed to 'Roman,' and the text read: _Wyatt made Seth suck H & R off to keep me safe. He didnt want me to tell you, but no more secrets. You should of told us what he did. Call us. We need to deal with Regal now._

It took Regal every ounce of willpower he possessed not to wince.

He'd thought Wyatt might pull a stunt like this - had more or less baited him into it, hadn't he, with that line about not caring what happened to Reigns or Rollins - but the reality of it was worse than expected.

No time to ponder that, because Ambrose tossed his phone onto the other bed and leaned in close. "What. The fuck. Did you _do_?" Fatally, _lethally _quiet.

Regal suddenly had visions of teeth ripping into his windpipe.

As much as he could with a knee all but crushing his chest and a hand clamped vice-like on his throat, though, he took a breath. Ambrose watched closely, and Regal knew anything - the smallest twitch or quiver - would set him off. The bloody boy was a timebomb ticking out its last five seconds.

"Whatever Wyatt's told your mates," he said, voice strained and winded, but the words calm, "it's not true. Not a bit of it. I'd swear that to you on my life. I have nothing to do with Wyatt, other than wanting his head stuffed and mounted on a way for what he did to you. I wasn't there when he hurt you, and don't bloody insult me by assuming I would be." He let a little of his own mounting anger creep in. "I know you're angry, and I don't blame you, but stop a second, calm bloody down, and let's think this through."

He looked hard into Ambrose's eyes, searching for _something_, some sign that the rage hadn't entirely consumed Ambrose's ability to see reason. For one awful moment, it looked as if the words had fallen on deaf ears. The hand around Regal's throat tightened, and Ambrose continued to stare down from his crouch, wide- and wild-eyed, neck and ears flushed dark, and breathing hard.

Regal remained still, not backing down or challenging, just trying his damnedest to remain calm, to project calm, to _be_ calm.

It wasn't easy: the knee in his sternum really bloody hurt, his ears were buzzing, and he honestly wanted to grab hold of a couple of Ambrose's fingers and bend them until they snapped like twigs.

Of all the bloody _stupid_ assumptions to make-

"You didn't do this," Ambrose said, the words all ground glass. "You didn't know. You really didn't."

"No," Regal squeezed out. "I didn't. My word on that."

Another eternity passed, but finally, without breaking eye contact, Ambrose backed away, shifting himself over to sit cross-legged on his half of the bed. He positioned himself at Regal's hip, fists on his knees, chin lowered.

After taking a moment to get his breath back, Regal irritably flung the covers off of himself and sat up against the headboard. He scrubbed slightly unsteady hands over his face, wiping the sleep out of his eyes and pushing his hair back off his temples. "_Thank_ you," he said, and if it came out rather sharply, well too bloody bad. "There's five years gone off my life."

Ambrose said nothing, just sat unnaturally still, eyes narrowed and eyebrows drawn together, hair a wild and shaggy curtain across his forehead.

Regal finally cleared his throat. "Did you call your mates?"

"No," Ambrose eventually said, voice gone a bit rough. "I saw the texts and I-"

"Decided you'd shoot first and ask questions later?"

"-kinda flipped shit. You okay?"

"Yes," Regal said honestly. More rattled and angry than anything, if he was honest. "You didn't hurt me."

Ambrose's tongue darted out across his lower lip. "I, uh, I'm sorry. That - fuck. I'm sorry."

While there was a small part of Regal a bit impressed that Ambrose even bothered to offer an apology, the rest of him remained stony. "I suppose it's understandable," he allowed, "given the circumstances. Still, do you really think, lad, do you honestly think for once second I'd actually ask someone do something so awful to you? Do you really think - do you honestly believe - I'd stand there and _watch_?" Outrage had him nearly shouting. "What happened to you - and Rollins, too - was _disgusting_. To think I'd actually _ask_ someone to do that to you - it makes me want to vomit." He shook his head. "But you _didn't_ think, and I could be dead right now."

Cutting words, those, cold and furious, and probably a bit of an exaggeration - he probably could have struggled out of the hold if he'd had to - but still necessary.

Damnedfool boy needed to see the damage he could have done.

Ambrose had gone white as a sheet, expression at once slapped and horrified and stricken. His shoulders hunched and he lowered his head. "They hurt Seth," he mumbled. "I lost it. I - fuck, Regal, I'm sorry. That was - fuck, that was stupid. I'm sorry." He swiped a hand over his chin, palm hissing over stubble. "That was exactly what Wyatt wanted, wasn't it?"

"Probably."

"Fuck. I'm s-"

"Stop apologizing," Regal said shortly. He reached over and took hold of Ambrose's chin - firmly, squeezing - to make sure they were eye to eye. "People like Wyatt - and me, for that matter - like playing with someone like you because you make it far too easy to wind you up and twist you into doing things. Because you _don't_ think; you just react. That's a big part of why you've been doing so badly in the ring lately - because you're _re_acting to what people are saying about you instead of focusing on winning like you should be. But if you've got any hope of helping your mates burn Wyatt to the ground, you need to remember he's doing and saying what he's doing and saying in the hopes he'll get you to do something like this. D'you see that?"

"...yeah." The rage had been all but snuffed out, leaving Ambrose's eyes fatigue-dull. "Yeah, I see it. I just - I get so fuckin' mad sometimes it's like I got a fuckin' bonfire in my head. Makes it hard to think sometimes. Especially-"

"Especially when someone like Wyatt hurts one of your mates."

"Yeah. Or..." He gestured between them. "I wanna fuckin' kill him."

"Makes two of us." He let go of Ambrose's chin. "Call your mates. I know it's - bloody hell, what time is it?"

"Uh, like, one-thirty."

"Mm. Well, give 'em a ring anyway." Regal, wide awake now, swung around to stand up - gingerly, because his hips, lower back, and thighs were about as sore as he'd expected from last night's activities. He hadn't even noticed before. "If they are up, see if they'll agree to meet us - yes, us - either here or somewhere neutral. If I'm being accused of something I should be allowed to have my say. Shouldn't I?"

A tight nod down at the duvet. Ambrose looked rather like a kicked dog, shrunk down and cringing.

His ire finally cooling a bit, Regal paused in the doorway to the bathroom. "It 's accepted, lad. Your apology. I know you were upset because of what happened to Rollins. It's understandable, as I said. Just use your damned head next time."

Once again, Ambrose only nodded.

"And for whatever it's worth," Regal said, "try something like that again, and I'll break your fingers. Every last bone in them. And mind you, I had about a hundred ways I could have countered that pitiful excuse of a pin attempt. I just didn't. Didn't want to embarrass you."

A ghost of a smile. "Right."

"By the way, I notice you're sitting rather gingerly," Regal pointed out archly. "Feeling a bit sore?"

"Was gonna ask you that," Ambrose said. "You're walkin' like you're about a hundred."

"It's worth it, considering I won the bet." Regal said, shrugging. "Ring your mates, lad. Make sure you make it clear my head is to remain attached to my shoulders. I don't fancy having to put it in one of those x-ray bins at the airport. Can you imagine trying to carry it on? I'm sure they'd charge me an arm and a bloody leg for it…"

The quiet sound of Ambrose's laughter followed him into the bathroom.

Regal closed the door behind him and moved to brace himself on the counter, head down, breathing hard to try to calm his admittedly frazzled nerves.

The worst part - the most galling thing - was that this was his own doing.

For going to Wyatt.

Oh, he damned well knew what he was getting himself into when he told Wyatt he didn't give a damn about what happened do Reigns and Rollins. It was an open invitation for Wyatt to take a shot at those two, to do something like this.

His own fault he was going to have to defend himself to two people whose opinions and regard meant more or less nothing to him, and his own fault he was going to have to pretend he actually gave a tinker's damn about what happened to Rollins. It was disgusting and quite degrading, and no, no, Rollins probably hadn't deserved it, but the fact still remained Regal just could not find it in himself to care.

Hypocrite that way, considering he wanted to burn Bray Wyatt's testicles off for what he'd done Ambrose (and now for _this_), but there it was.

He twisted on the cold water and bent down to splash some on his face.

xXx

_Early November, 2012 - II_

_It was never anything regular, the thing with Dean, not at first - just the occasional blowjob in the parking lot until Regal caught them kissing, (and if there had ever been a sign that this was a bad fucking idea, that was it, because Dean didn't even bat a fucking eye when Regal walked past; it was almost like Dean was fucking rubbing it in Regal's face)._

_After that, Seth made a rule that the FCW parking lot was off limits for this, and Dean had been agreeable enough._

_Somehow, impossibly, they wound up back at Seth's place, and real clothes-off sex happened._

_Good sex._

_Edgy, kind of angry sex, the kind Seth had a hard fucking time getting out of his head afterward, even though he was kinda rude and kicked Dean out after it happened._

_Despite Seth's better judgment, it got to be a regular thing - it was just sort of expected that after a show or if they were on the road somewhere they'd wind up at one of their apartments (usually Dean's because Seth had a bunch of roommates, and Dean's lone roommate was hardly ever around) or in one of their hotel rooms. Even if they separated and Seth went out for drinks with other people (and Dean went wherever the hell it was he went after shows), they'd eventually meet back up later._

_Seth thought it'd be really weird, considering he and Dean did nothing but fight the first five months they knew each other, but it was surprisingly - not._

_Before the Regal obsession turned Dean into a raging fucking drunk and sent him into a depressed tailspin that made Seth break things off, things were low-key, fun, and not at all what Seth expected._

_(He guessed he shouldn't have been surprised. They matched up really fucking well _in _the ring, strengths and weaknesses pretty much canceling each other out, so it probably stood to reason they'd match up well outside it.)_

_They were both competitive guys, so a lot of their time together was spent doing ridiculous shit like playing drunk strip poker, thinking up stupid bets (Dean winning _way _more than he probably should have, the fucking cheater), finding the most outrageous places to give each other blowjobs (Seth really got off on the idea, as long as it wasn't in places where it was fucking Regal who'd catch them), and on and on._

_The sex was pretty fucking good, too. Dean wouldn't let Seth fuck him (didn't let anybody do that, he'd explained, old ghosts in his eyes, and Seth had winced at the implication), but was open to anything and everything else Seth wanted to do: getting rough enough to draw blood when Seth was in the mood for it, fucking anywhere Seth wanted to (the bathroom stall at Chili's in Ft. Lauderdale was probably his favorite - Seth balanced precariously on the toilet tank while Dean gave him a blowjob as probably half a dozen dudes came and went, all totally unaware), and pretty much anything else Seth wanted._

_By Valentine's Day, about four months later, they'd gotten into the habit of maybe finding a movie to watch or something before they fucked. Sometimes they went and hung out on the beach. Sometimes they just hung out and talked about their days on the road, just swapping stories and shit, and the more they did that, the more Seth realized they really _weren't _all that different - both worked their way up from pretty much nothing to get where they were, and were both bound and determined to get to the top in their own ways._

_Dean drove Seth crazy, no doubt - he was a slob, was lazy as hell, tended to drink too much, and good luck getting him to actually talk about anything that mattered to him - and they argued about shit all the time, but it never amounted to anything more than the two of them avoiding each other for a few days._

_At one point, shortly before the big Regal-induced meltdown, Seth looked at the calendar and was kind of stunned to realize he and Dean had been seeing each other - or whatever the fuck they were doing - for the better part of six months, and still going strong._

_Was even more surprised to realize he was kind of okay with that._

_Was okay with the way Dean wasn't real touchy-feely except during sex, was okay with the way Dean didn't like even little hints this was anything other than casual fucking (even though by now they both knew better), was okay with the idea that this probably wasn't going to end anytime soon - not unless something drastically bad happened, because he and Dean had found a groove that worked pretty well for them._

_Was a little weirded that the idea of this thing ending actually bothered him._

_The wheels came off right about then, of course, because Dean was Dean and self-destruction seemed to be hardwired into his fucking DNA._

_It happened fast, all at once, one night after a taping where Regal had walked during Dean's match. Dean had snapped, walking into the back screaming something about a broken heart, and it kind of broke Seth's._

_Because the worst thing about Dean - the things Seth hated more than anything - was his fucking obsession with William fucking Regal. There were times Seth would look over while they were watching a movie, and Dean would be a thousand miles away. At the arena, Dean was always watching Regal, or worse, even fucking _following _him, like some little puppy begging for some attention. Instead of trying to win his matches, he was trying - and failing - to play mind games with Regal._

_While Seth was rising to new heights of success as FCW Heavyweight champion, Dean was losing matches left, right, and center in his sickly obsessive need to get Regal's attention._

_Regal wouldn't give it to him - not one fucking word._

_Because the sick fuck knew exactly what he was doing._

_Not only knew, but was enjoying it, if the little furtive, smug little smiles Regal gave Dean when he caught Dean staring were anything to go by._

_Two days later, Seth went over to Dean's apartment and found Dean passed out facedown in a pile of beer bottles, half a dozen fist-sized holes punched in his living room wall and blood all over his plaster-covered hands. Dean had come out of his stupor still mostly drunk, and had proceeded to throw beer bottles at his wall, slurring on about Regal this and Regal that, until Seth had finally snapped himself, slapped Dean across the face, told him to get a fucking grip, and walked out._

_Dean came around the next afternoon, half drunk and so fatally, bitterly angry at Regal that he'd picked a fight with Seth. Seth, furious and absolutely sick inside, wound up punching him in the face and kicking him out of the apartment, the words "We're done," ringing in the air between them._

_That was the last time Seth actually saw him sober outside of the arena for almost three fucking months._

_Seth got so disgusted he challenged Dean to a match, and fucking _dominated _him - something he shouldn't have been able to do because they matched up so fucking well together. He jammed the knife in even deeper by putting Dean in the Regal stretch at one point, and oh man, he was legit terrified for his life at that point, but _fuck Dean_. Here he and Seth had actually had something, and the asshole had to go and throw it away for over some pointless match with some old never was._

_Yeah, yeah, there were some hard feelings._

_And there were incidents._

_Seth heard secondhand from Dean's roommate (who wound up leaving) that the cops had been called a few times for noise disturbance, that more than once the roommate had to send a cab to collect Dean from whatever bar he'd wound up in, and that Dean had stopped working out - spending most his time hung over and just laying around his room, muttering to himself about Regal, Regal, fucking Regal. And Seth saw firsthand how edgy-restless Dean was as he paced the halls of the arena, saw himself how many more fights Dean got into backstage, and saw how Dean stalked Regal openly, relentlessly._

_Seth tried to ignore him._

_He was a champion and there were a lot of things for a champ to do - signings and a lot more matches, and so on, and he was _happy _about that._

_More than happy to be the face of FCW._

_He even started going out again, managing to score some pretty impressive hookups with very beautiful women._

_And if the sex was a little bland, if he missed the rough scrape of stubble against his shoulder, if he missed that stupid Dusty Rhodes impression, well, he'd get over it._

xXx

After he hung up with Seth, Dean threw his phone onto the dresser and sat down on the edge of the second bed, hunching down to shove the heels of his hands against his eyes.

That fucking volcano was still going off in the back of his mind, rage flowing hot like fresh lava, screaming at him to jump up and start throwing shit - tear the beds apart, smash lamps, bust the TV.

Just something.

Fucking _anything_.

The Wyatts had fucking touched _Seth_.

_Seth_.

Somebody was going to motherfucking _die_ for that.

_Somebody_ was.

But Regal-

Maybe he didn't trust Regal, but just going after him like that without even fucking _asking _was probably one of the stupidest fucking things he'd ever done. He'd been ready to kill the guy - like legit _choke the life_ out of him - right then and there, to just give in to all that shit screaming in his head and just fucking end him and never give him a chance to explain.

Without even stopping to consider it might just be another Wyatt mindfuck.

How the fuck had he _missed_ that?

His hand shot out on its own and swiped at the alarm clock, which was some cheap battery-powered thing that broke open and spilled its little battery guts everywhere when it hit the floor.

They'd fucking touched _Seth_.

And Dean's fucking hands were still shaking when he heard the bathroom door open and the quiet sounds of Regal padding over to take a seat on the other bed.

Dean didn't look up.

Didn't need to - knew exactly how Regal would be studying him: sharp, knowing eyes and _fuck_, Dean hated that - how Regal never seemed to miss a fucking _thing_.

Not that it was probably real difficult right now for him to guess, what with Dean sitting there probably looking like a shaken-up beer bottle ready to blow its fucking cap.

"Well?" Regal prompted. Straight to the point - all business, no bullshit.

_Focus, asshole_.

"They'll be here in about ten minutes." Words so tight he could hear them, like, vibrating - some guitar string pulled out too far and snapped back in place. "Didn't believe me. About you. Roman freaked out when I said you'd be here."

'Freaked out' was maybe understating it.

Dean had never heard Roman shout like that before, barrel-voiced, like a general on some ancient battlefield barking out orders to all his troops. Oh, he was mad, shouting about how he was going to snap every bone in Regal's body. The part of Dean that wasn't cringing away from the phone was actually kind of impressed: who the fuck knew Roman had _that_ kind of rage in him?

Of course, Seth had been - well, the Wyatts had fucking _touched_ Seth, and God knew Roman was as protective of Seth as a mother fucking bear and her cub. (_But just about Seth, _some ruthless part of Dean couldn't help pointing out. For like the hundredth time in the last five minutes. _Just Seth - not you_.)

And, yeah, Dean was with him on wanting to put Harper and Rowan's eyes out with a rusty fucking fork for fucking with Seth like that - no question.

Harper and Rowan would learn the hard way real fuckin' soon you never put your hands on a guy like that.

For right now, though, they had to worry about Roman and Seth.

And Regal, who Dean suddenly realized was standing in front of him.

_Fuck's the matter with you, asshole? Pay attention_.

A hand in his hair gently tugged his head up. He craned his neck and looked up and up. Regal looked down at him from some impossible height, all cool, calm eyes and a surprising lack of surprise in his expression.

Didn't really even look that mad anymore, which was pretty impressive, considering the whole 'I want to introduce your face to a wall a few dozen times, _dear boy_' vibe he'd been giving off not ten minutes ago.

Rumpled tee shirt or not, bed head or not, _that_ was the Regal Dean remembered from Florida.

The hand in his hair slid down to his temple, and was joined by the other hand on the other side, so Regal had hold of his head the way Seth had the other night. Cool hands, not holding hard.

"Look at me, lad." Before Dean could point out he already was, Regal said, "We'll sort this out one way or another. Just keep your head. Don't get stuck _here_-" one finger tapped the side of Dean's head "-on this nonsense, because that's exactly what Wyatt wants. Remember that. Remember what we just bloody talked about. All right?"

Maybe it was the chill-as-fuck way Regal was watching him, maybe it was the no-bullshit way Regal was talking to him, or - well, who the fuck knew? It was _something_, and that maybe that something didn't stop or shut up the fucking tempest raging in Dean's head, but after he took a breath or two, he felt like he was out ahead of it a little ways instead of being pummeled and yanked apart in the middle of it.

Finally, he nodded. "Okay."

Regal looked down at him for another few seconds before nodding himself. "All right, then." His thumbs swiped across Dean's cheekbones just once, then he lowered his hands and turned away. "Because if nothing else, lad, I don't fancy taking a spear from Reigns tonight. Might have to use you as a human shield."

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face again. "Very fuckin' funny. You know he almost broke my ribs doing that shit to me, right?"

Regal, who Dean noticed really _was_ moving like he was about ninety, limped over to snag his pants off the back of the desk chair. "You'd let him batter an old man like - oh, bloody hell, of course you would. Probably laugh your arse off while he did it, too."

"Probably." It was on his tongue to ask why the fuck Regal was getting dressed since Seth and Roman were coming over, but he wound up shaking his head and going off in search of his own discarded clothes instead.

He bet Regal didn't want Seth and Roman to see him anything less than put together, which - whatever.

Dean threw his shirt and jeans back on while Regal - in his slacks, dress shirt, and vest - headed back into the bathroom. Still feeling edgy and really fucking restless, Dean straightened the bed back up and tossed his shit behind the chair.

The knock came about ten minutes later, with Regal watching TV at the table, and Dean pacing the room.

At the sound, Dean glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in silent question.

Regal switched off the TV and nodded.

Mouth suddenly bone fucking dry, heart jackhammering, Dean made his way to the door and pulled it open.

The first thing he noticed when he caught sight of Seth and Roman was how ragged they both looked: puffy eyes with dark crescents under them, coats hanging open over wrinkled tee shirts, hair pulled into sloppy pony tails that had let a lot of pieces escape, Seth's shoulders pulled in and Roman's jaw doing that _I'm chewing rocks I'm so mad_ thing it always did.

They were both frowning - Seth mildly, and Roman so much it looked his fucking face was trying to fold in on itself.

Unsure what to say, Dean just gestured for them to come in.

Seth shook his head. "Come out here a second. We need to talk. Alone."

"What about?" Dean asked, eyeing them warily.

"Don't be an asshole," Seth said quietly. "It's us dude. Come out here."

"No," Dean said. Images of the Wyatts grabbing him swam into his mind's eye for a second - _The hell's the matter with you, asshole? Seth and Roman don't do shit like that. You know they don't_ - before he shoved them away, firmly. "Just come in and let's fucking deal with this shit. Get it out in the fucking open and stop playing 'he said, they said.' I'm fucking sick of it."

Without waiting for an answer, he deliberately let go of the door and backed into the room.

Either they'd catch the door or they'd let it close - one way or the other.

_In or out, guys_.

One of Seth's gloved hands shot out to catch the door as Dean headed over to stand by the dresser, one arm propped up on it.

"Nicely done," Regal murmured behind him.

Startled, Dean glanced over. Regal was actually smiling, just a little, which - either he was mocking or he actually approved or whatever, but Dean didn't have time to really dig at it.

After what felt like a fucking eternity, Seth and Roman got their asses into the room, and shed their coats. Seth sat down on the end of the bed while Roman, whose flinty eyes hadn't left Regal's face for a second, leaned back against the edge of the desk, arms folded over his chest.

Dean looked at them both, one to the other and back. "You guys okay?"

Roman nodded. "Just a headache. I'll be all right."

"Fine," Seth said flatly, flicking a dark look Regal's way. "It's fine."

"The fuck it is," Roman muttered. To Regal he said, "You got thirty seconds, old man, before I walk over there and rip your head off. Start talking."

Regal inclined his head. Didn't even look fazed. "Big scary man and his big scary threats. I am well and truly terrified. I'm also innocent, incidentally. Do calm down."

"You don't tell me what to do," Roman said. "And you better have something better than that."

"What d'you want, exactly?" Regal asked. "A confession written in blood? I had nothing to do with happened to you tonight, nor anything that's happened to _him_-" he nodded at Dean "-the past few days. This is no more than a case of Wyatt winding you lot up and trying to set you off in the wrong direction. Your fight is with him, not with me. But for what it's worth, I am sorry for what's happened to you lads. What they've done to you is sickening. They deserve to burn for it."

"Yeah, they do," Roman said, pushing away from the desk. "And so do you. Because if you think I believe any of that bullshit you just said-"

Dean stepped in front of him, cutting off his access. They were almost close enough to kiss. "_No_."

Roman pulled himself up to his full height, shoulders squaring. Made the height difference between them feel a lot bigger than it was. "What do you mean _no_?"

"I mean no," Dean said. "I mean he's telling the truth. I mean you don't touch him."

"So, what," Roman grated, eyes narrow and nostrils flaring, "this you now? After what happened to Seth tonight, after what's been happening to you, you back that asshole over your brothers?"

Nodding, Dean said, "On this, yeah. Why are you so sure he's guilty, Rome? What did Wyatt even say? That's what I wanna know. I mean, I know you guys said he blamed Regal, but what did he say, exactly?"

It was Seth who told him, speaking in an unnaturally flat near-monotone that bothered Dean a lot more than the actual words Seth was saying (which smelled like Wyatt had been shoveling a big pile of bullshit - basically Wyatt just taking a big swipe at Regal, more than anything).

He tried to deny it, but Seth had a pretty bad fucking temper. It didn't get away from him like Dean's did, but when he got mad, he got _mad_, yelling until his voice sounded like a chain-smoking eighty-year-old woman's.

Right now, he was pretty much the opposite of that, all bottled up and shit, while he ran through what Wyatt said, and what he had Rowan and Harper do, which - Seth didn't go into details, but what little he shared still made Dean's fucking stomach shrivel and his blood boil.

More than anything, he wanted to go over and reel Seth in, wrap him up, and not fucking let go for a while.

Just until he was sure Seth was okay.

He didn't, though, because the ugly little voice that always seemed to speak up lately when it came time for him to do something that really fucking mattered whispered that Seth'd push him away, or Roman would get mad, or that everybody would stare at him like _What are you doing, you idiot?_

So he just stood there like a chump while Roman sat down on the edge of the bed, tattooed arm sliding around Seth's shoulder and pulling him in.

"I gotcha, baby," he said, cheek finding its way to the top of Seth's head. "I gotcha."

"'M fine, Rome," Seth said through a sigh. "'M all right."

"I know, but…" Roman leaned in to say something into Seth's ear.

Dean turned away, checking a sigh of his own, and walked over to pull the table's other chair out. He glanced at Regal, briefly, but ended up turning away from him, too, when he caught Regal watching.

Too fucking knowing for his own good.

It was Roman who finally broke the silence, shooting Regal a glare over Seth's head. "So you get why we might be a little skeptical."

"No," Seth said quietly. He turned to face Regal himself. "I didn't think about this before, but this isn't your style. And I don't think you'd be stupid enough to advertise you did something like this, anyway - not when there's a chance we'd go to the Authority or the cops."

"No, I wouldn't," Regal agreed. He hesitated like he was arguing with himself about saying something, then shrugged. "I suppose in your defense, Wyatt is extraordinarily good at convincing not only himself but others that what he's saying is the truth. It's understandable you might not have been thinking completely clearly, considering the circumstances."

Seth's eyes, half-lidded and ringed with fatigue, narrowed. "How are you even involved? That's what I want to know? Why did Wyatt say you were?"

Regal folded his hands together neatly on the table and told Seth and Roman his part, from the first time he found Dean to his meeting with Wyatts, only leaving out the parts about he and Dean sleeping together.

When he was done, Dean filled in all the gaps - explaining again what happened during and after the Elimination Chamber match, and then telling them all the shit he hadn't told them about the following night.

Took him the longest because he had the most to tell, and he ran through it as cut-and-dried and to-the-point as Regal had, trying not to get too mired down in any one thing. He could still hear that fucking storm buzzing away in the back of his mind, ready and waiting for a chance to suck him up and throw him around again.

The room got quiet after he finished, all four of them kind of retreating to let it all settle in.

He expected maybe Seth or Roman to ask him why he hadn't told them about the Monday stuff, but neither one of them did. Instead, Seth leaned forward again and scrubbed both hands over his face, "I can't even tell you how much I wanna rip fucking Wyatt apart right now. Him and his fucking goons. With my bare fucking hands."

Sounded more like himself at least, Dean thought tiredly, chewing on a thumbnail.

Roman nodded, big hand rubbing circles on Seth's back. "Makes two of us, baby."

"Pretty sure we all do, Rome," Dean said.

Neither Seth nor Roman said anything, and Dean had the weirdest feeling like he'd turned invisible all of a sudden.

Made the storm in his head start buzzing again.

Seth propped his chin on both fists. _Now_ the question came: "Why didn't you tell us, dude?"

"Oh, how am I doing?" Dean asked sarcastically. "Been better. But thanks for asking, and, you know, not climbing on my back about not telling you. 'Cuz as shitty as the last couple days have been, I really don't need that."

"We don't need the attitude, either," Roman said, a clear warning in his voice. "He was just asking."

Without looking away from Dean, Seth reached over and squeezed Roman's leg. "No, he's right. I shouldn't have said that." He held out an arm. "Come here."

Because a fucking pity hug was gonna make anything better.

(_Weren't you just wanting to hug Seth?)_

Dean told himself to shut the fuck up, made himself stay put.

"I'm sorry," Seth said. "Okay? Now stop being a stubborn asshole and come over here."

The storm in Dean's head got a little louder - _stubborn asshole, huh?_ - and he found himself swiveling back and forth in his chair, flicking each fingernail against his thumb - index to pinky, pinky to index.

He heard Regal snort, quietly, but completely ignored him - _asshole _- in favor of focusing on Seth and Roman.

Might as well have been staring at them across the Grand Canyon.

The difference between Seth and Dean, though, was that Seth had never let even a huge fucking gap like that stop him from getting what he wanted.

Always rushing in where angels feared to tread, or however that shit went.

Dean had always really liked that about the guy.

Except times like now, where he was looking like ground-up dogshit, because even through the gathering clouds in his head, Dean _still_ managed to feel like an asshole about it.

Because Seth got up anyway, and came over to kneel right in front of his chair (and, _fuck_, the memories), all tired puppy-dog eyes and scraggly fucking beard and hair in serious need of brushing, and he shouldn't have _had_ to get up, but he'd never, ever learned how to just let Dean be a stubborn asshole, so of course he did, and of course Dean reached over to tuck one of those fried blond pieces of hair behind his ear.

Seth didn't smile, but his eyes did, maybe. Lightened, maybe. His hands settled on Dean's knees, tentative, like birds ready to fly away at the first sign of danger. "Been better, huh? So not good?"

"Not really," Dean admitted. Trying really fucking hard not to let himself get pulled down into Seth's eyes, that fucking rabbit hole, because it'd just break his stupid heart all over again when Seth got up and walked away.

Because he would.

Because what was two-and-a-half years scratching and clawing through hell to carve out a little happiness, anyway, when Seth had tall, dark, and tattooed over there and nothing but calm seas ahead of them for-fucking-ever?

Fingernails to thumb - index to pinky, pinky to index, _flick-flick-flick_, like a steady, monotonous heartbeat.

"Are you?" he suddenly heard himself ask. "Okay, I mean. Are you?"

Because he remembered how fucking disgusting he'd felt after Wyatt got done, how fucking just gross and dirty, like he'd rolled around in shit and needed to go shower in bleach to make himself feel clean.

How ready to go rip somebody's fucking _nuts_ off he'd been.

How fucking stupid he'd felt for letting himself get caught like that in the first place.

And Seth maybe knew - or guessed - that was what Dean meant, because he said, "I will be, yeah. Just - I wanna get these assholes in the ground, you know? Soon as we do that, and I sleep like a week, I'll be good."

"I know the feeling," Dean said, because he did. But it wasn't going to be enough just to plant them. He had thoughts of playing _Operation_ on Wyatt with a rusty fucking fork - and not giving a shit if Wyatt's fucking nose lit up or the bastard screamed.

_Regal'd like that_, he thought for no reason.

Did not let himself look over, but was suddenly conscious he and Seth did have an audience. "So we good, then?" he asked. "You guys, you satisfied I'm not, like, being played by the evil mastermind over there?"

He was hoping for at least a smile, but he didn't get one. Seth stayed serious. "I mean, I _guess _I buy Regal's not behind it, but what the fuck was the point, then? Like, was he trying to get us to fight more, trying to get us to go after Regal? What? The fuck was he _doing_?"

"Hitting back, I think," Regal said, knuckles rapping lightly on the table.

Dean glanced over. "Yeah, I kinda thought so, too. Mean, okay, he gets us all pissed at you for like a minute, but he's gotta know we'll figure it out."

"Unless he really thinks you are that stupid," Regal said. "Which would actually work to your advantage. Means he'll have underestimated you."

"I don't buy that," Dean said. He gave Regal a narrow look. "You don't either, do you?"

"No," Regal admitted. He leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach. "I think it's most likely this was a retaliation."

"For you making a run at him," Roman cut in. Dean swore to God he could hear ice snapping between the words. "Which means this _is_ your damn fault. You stuck your big damn nose where you shouldn't have, and you got Seth hurt."

"So is it my fault they jumped me after RAW the other night, then?" Dean asked. Snapped, more like, almost a reflex of a question, but Roman could actually out-stubborn Dean sometimes, like a dog with a bone it just fucking refused to give up. "I tore a big fucking chunk outta Wyatt's neck, and pissed him off pretty bad. He came at me later that night, so I guess that means it's my own fault, right? I had it coming?"

Flicker of gray eyes right then, dark as rainclouds, and Roman scowled hard enough to cut deep lines across his forehead. "It's not the same thing, and you know it, Ambrose. Don't twist my words."

"Guys, don't," Seth cut in. He sounded fucking exhausted all of a sudden. "Let's not fight about this."

Dean kept right on swiveling in his chair. "Who's fighting? I was just gonna say, our beef is with the Wyatts. It's always been with the Wyatts, so why is this even a thing?"

Seth balled a fist and knocked it lightly against Dean's shin. "It's not. So we got fucked with, is what happened. Bottom line is, we gotta figure out how we're gonna burn 'em down." He rolled to his feet and made his way back over to the bed. "Back to focusing on that."

Once again, Roman's arm found its way around Seth's shoulders. "Beatin' 'em to a pulp? I'm down."

They looked good together, Dean couldn't help noticing, comfortable and easy, Seth tiredly resting the back of his head on the top of Roman's shoulder, his arm going around Roman's back.

All Dean had done the entire time Seth had been over here - _looking for what Roman's giving him_ - was flick his stupid fingers against his thumb.

Still was, in fact, as he swiveled and tried to ignore Regal fucking watching him again.

Seth stuffed a fist against his mouth to stifle a yawn. "Fuck," he muttered. "Dean, I know you're planning to go back to Vegas, but you should come home with us this week. The Wyatt thing - I'm not real cool with you being off by yourself all week."

"Uh." Dean coughed, the words _come home_ hitting him funny. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

"No, seriously," Seth said. "We'll even pay for the ticket. Just - come stay with us."

Roman nodded. "I don't want to take any chances on anything happening to either of you, so you should get your stuff and come stay with us. That way there's no chance anything goes wrong this week. That, and maybe we have a chance to hash some of this other shit out."

"Exactly," Seth said. "We were just gonna hang out, anyway. Maybe go hit the paintball range or something one afternoon. But other than that, it's just gonna be whatever, you know? No big deal. So come on."

The hand that had been flicking slid around the back of his neck, hooked there, each finger tapping in turn. "Look, it's not that I don't-"

"Hey," Seth said over him. One hand flew up as if to say 'stop.' "You can't argue with us on this one. We're right and you know it. The best place for you this week is with us."

"_With_ you," Dean muttered. "You mean on your _couch_. While you two are back in your room fucking. Yeah, that sounds like an awesome fucking week to me."

If he had a choice between sleeping on Seth's couch while those two fucked in the bedroom or getting his stabbed in the nuts with a rusty fork, he'd take the stabbing at this point.

Which he didn't _say_ of course, but he was pretty sure they got the idea anyway, if the comprehension he watched break across their faces meant anything - both sets of eyes narrowing at him, lips thinning, and Seth scrubbing a hand over his beard.

"So you _are_ mad at us."

Seth always did have a talent for stating the glaringly obvious, but rather than answer him, Dean said, "I'm not going to Vegas anyway, and I'm not gonna be by myself, so you don't gotta worry about me."

It was Roman who asked, quietly, "Where are you going?"

"Home with me, actually," Regal said himself. Sound almost like he was gloating, the smug asshole, but Dean didn't really have the energy to call him on it.

Suddenly didn't give a shit if Seth and Roman knew.

Roman straightened like someone had jammed a steel rod into his back, eyes homing in on Dean's face like a couple heat-seeking missiles. "No."

"_Hell_ no," Seth echoed. "Dean, what are you even _doing_? What _is_ this? I know you're mad at us right now, but come on."

"Look, I'm not gonna fight with you guys about this," Dean said, straightening. Took most of his willpower not to spin around in the chair and kick a hole through the wall. Starting to feel like they were going round and round in an endless fucking circle "You guys tossed me out like it was fucking nothing, like you really fucking think two and a half years didn't mean shit to me, so like I said, you don't get to tell me what to do anymore."

Words hurled like tactical fucking nukes. He could tell they landed by the way both Seth and Roman flinched.

Dean refused to let himself feel guilty. "It'll be fine. Just - give it some time. Space. Whatever. And let's not forget the important shit - like you guys keep saying, the team's still the team, and right now we gotta bury some fucking Wyatts. Because, really, none of this other shit matters while they're floating around, right?"

"I think you three really do need a bit of a break," Regal said suddenly. "It's late, you're all clearly exhausted, and none of you are at your best the moment, so before any of you says anything you'll regret, perhaps you two had better head back to your hotel. Have a rest and try this again this weekend."

Roman snapped a look at him. "I don't think anybody here was talking to you."

"Be that as it may, Mr. Reigns, this _is_ my hotel room, and I am rather exhausted myself. We've got an early flight in this morning, and, as I'd prefer not to be a complete zombie, I'll ask you to see yourselves out." He held up a hand, though. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for what happened to you two tonight."

"You should be," Roman said, standing. "I don't care what you say. You stirred the pot and Seth paid the price. You think we don't see that? You really think we don't see what you're doing _here_?" Another cool, quick look Dean's way, storm gray and frown-shadowed, before he glared at Regal again. "Stay the fuck out of it. We don't need you sticking your damn nose in it. And so help me God, I find out you're fucking with Dean again, they're gonna find pieces of you all across the country." This time, he looked directly at Dean. "Nobody fucks with my boys."

"Easy, Rome," Seth said, reaching up to pat Roman's arm. "Take it easy." He stood and leaned against Roman's side. "Dean - you're gonna do whatever you're gonna do. I know that. Just - please be careful. And keep your phone on, okay? 'Cuz I'm gonna call you, and we're gonna talk about shit. What you said."

Index to pinky, pinky to index, and back again. Over and over. "Whatever."

"Dude-"

"_Okay_," Dean cut him off. "All right. Fine. Just - watch yourselves, okay? Get some rest and, whatever, take a break, and let's just - let's try this again in a few days."

And he knew - he fucking _knew_ - he should get up and go over to try one more time to smooth shit over, pull 'em in, show 'em he was okay and assure himself they were okay, but he sat there looking at them and this time it felt more like he was about as far away from them as the Earth was from Pluto.

Eventually, they left.

And as they did, Dean couldn't shake the feeling that Wyatt had won the round.

No fucking contest.

xXx

_Eventually Dean's match with Regal happened._

_Afterward, after the dust had settled and Regal had been transported to the hospital for CT scans and whatever else they were going to do to his head, Seth had gone out to his car and found Dean standing there._

_Sober. Clear-eyed. Contrite._

_Dean had actually apologized - probably the first time Seth had ever heard him do it - and had left it at that._

_He hadn't asked for another chance, just said he was sorry for "fucking it all up," wished Seth good luck at NXT, and had gone on his way._

_A couple weeks later, Seth became the first-ever NXT champion, and as he'd stood there shaking Triple H's hand, he'd felt alive and fucking vindicated for all the hard work he'd put in and all the shit he'd been through in the last few months, because winning this belt was huge._

_Meant it wouldn't be long before he'd on his way up to the bigs, he was sure of it._

_After shaking hands with nearly everyone else on the roster (except Dean, which wasn't surprising but was still a little disappointing), Seth retreated to the locker room with his new title, still fucking high on the adrenaline. He'd no more than set the belt down on his bag when he heard the door open behind him._

_When he turned, Dean was standing there in his street clothes, hands shoved in his pockets, looking weirdly nervous. He said his congratulations with an awkward little smile, nodded when Seth thanked him, and turned to leave._

_Seth almost didn't stop him._

_Did, though, by asking Dean how he was._

_And that was the start._

_It took time, but eventually they found their way back into the groove._

_The dumb jokes came back, the stupid competitions, the rambling talks about absolutely nothing important, and, best of all, the sex - all of it came back a little at a time._

_Nothing complicated, no strings (or so they told themselves), but something worth hanging onto._

_Dean kept Seth from getting lost in frustration when the shot at the big-time Triple H promised him in September never materialized, and Seth kept Dean from getting too down about having nothing to do but dark matches for months on end._

_By mid-October, though, they both admitted they felt like they were spinning their wheels._

_So when Paul Heyman called them, they both jumped at the chance._

_Which was where they were now, the two of them and Roman Reigns, three days away from making their move into the big-leagues._

_Seth didn't know Roman very well._

_They'd had a match once, all three of them, and Dean had tagged with the guy once, but they'd traveled in different circles and hadn't spoken very often. All Seth knew of Roman was he was built like a fucking Greek statue and, while he green as grass in the ring, definitely had the raw talent of a star in the making._

_He didn't talk much, was the thing, so nobody knew him all that well._

_The whole tall, dark, and mysterious thing was how he rolled._

_It was just - after a year of ups and downs with Dean here, Seth found himself actually wanting to have a chance to enjoy the ride before the water got all choppy again._

_So, as he traced absent lines across Dean's stomach, he said, "Lemme think about it, huh Maybe have a chance to see what he's really like."_

"_Oh, yeah, sure," Dean said. "I didn't mean, like, _tonight_. Just - y'know, if you wanted to. Sometime. Maybe. Whatever." He smiled, easy and untroubled, and pushed the popcorn bag out of the way so he could crawl over and straddle Seth's hips. His hands wandered down to Seth's chest, fingertips straying to the waistband of his shorts. "If not, that's cool, too. We do pretty good on our own, right?"_

"_Real good, I'd say," Seth said. "But I'll think about it. How's that grab ya?"_

"_That," Dean said, leaning down to kiss Seth, "is cool with me."_

xXx

A/N: Obviously there's another piece of the story bridging how Dean and Seth got from here to where they are in the present, and we'll get to that shortly. Probably no update until the week of the 4th. Heading out on vacation. Yay.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Back again, finally. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me so far. I appreciate everyone reading and reviewing! Enjoy!

**IX. Battle Lines**

_2012  
You couldn't _not _like Seth._

_That was Roman's thing._

_Yeah, okay, sometimes he was obnoxiously balls-out gung-ho, and it was a little annoying sometimes the way he always pushed them to train harder and work in the gym longer - Roman never participated in the shit-giving Dean did about that, but he tended to agree that Seth was a total CrossFit dork because who the heck sat around watching videos of dudes working out and got into arguments on the internet about _technique_? - but besides that, he was driven and determined as hell and really damn _nice_._

_Seth hadn't been signed yet when Roman had his first match, but by the time Roman finally picked up his first victory, Seth was not only there, but was the first to shake his hand and congratulate him backstage._

_One of the few who did._

_Roman came from a football background, having played in college, so he was used to a locker room atmosphere where, while, yeah, there was some friendly rivalries over who could bench more, everyone was still on the same team and working toward the same goal._

_The FCW locker room was almost completely the opposite._

_He got it: everybody was competing for a handful of spots on the main roster, meaning the guy you were tagging today with wasn't going to hesitate to knock you down and step on your back tomorrow if it meant getting a rung higher on the ladder._

_Alliances formed and dissolved so fast it made Roman's head spin._

_So it was kind of a breath of fresh air when a guy like Seth Rollins - an honest-to-God star in the making, Roman thought - came up to him after a win and said, "Good match, man, congratulations."_

_He noticed Seth tended to be that way with all the guys - not an ass-kisser, but somebody who was secure enough about his own status to not act like a jealous douche if somebody else had a great match and managed to stand out._

_Roman told himself that was how _he _was going to be if he ever made it to the top._

_In the meantime, he kept his head down, his mouth shut, and got to the business of learning everything he damn could._

_Wrestling was in his blood and he'd be damned if he was going to settle for anything less than climbing all the way to the top._

xXx

"No, no no nononono," Seth was mumbling in his sleep. "Don't, don't, don't."

He pulled his arms tighter around himself, huddled deeper against the plane's wall.

Leaning away from Roman, like he'd been all damn flight.

Thanking God the flight wasn't all that crowded, Roman reached over and settled a hand on Seth's jacket-covered shoulder. "Shh, it's okay, baby. It's okay. I gotcha."

Seth stirred, snuffled, and lifted his head. Glassy, barely-open eyes found Roman's. "Rome? We there?"

"Got another half-hour or so," Roman said quietly. "You were having a bad dream."

"Oh. Mm, it w's..." Seth yawned and whatever he'd been about to say trailed off into a sleepy nonsense mush. He lowered his head against the wall again, and his eyes drifted back shut.

Couldn't have been comfortable, but Roman guessed Seth was too tired to care.

When Roman had woken up, some three hours after he and Seth had left Dean back at Regal's room, he'd found Seth standing at the window, staring out, pale as the frosty morning outside and tired-eyed, and he'd known Seth hadn't slept a wink.

Or maybe he'd tried and had had bad dreams dogging him then, too.

Down where Roman _couldn't_ protect him.

Not that he'd been able to protect either of his boys much this week, and that really cut - how easily guys like Wyatt and Regal (two sides of the same damn coin) managed to slip between the three of them and pull them apart until it felt like were just frayed threads holding them together, all stretched to the breaking point.

Seth had felt far away ever since they'd made it back to their hotel room after Wyatt let them go, and it felt like it only got worse after they'd left Regal's hotel room.

He hadn't let Roman touch him on the way back, he'd shrugged Roman off this morning when Roman had tried to wrap him up, and yet again he'd leaned away with his arms wrapped around himself where he'd usually be using Roman for a human pillow.

Leaving Roman standing there with his useless hands clenched in his lap and the taste of failure coating the back of his throat like a melted aspirin.

Because on the other side of this screwed up tug 'o war was Dean, who right now didn't just feel far away.

He felt _gone_.

Roman hadn't been able to protect him, either - not that the stubborn jackass ever would ever admit he needed somebody to look out for him - and that one really cut, knowing Wyatt had gotten to Dean three damn times without Seth or Roman knowing about it.

Knowing it was William damn Regal who had known.

This whole thing felt like it was spinning out control, like some kid's top bouncing off the furniture, wobbling and going just crazy.

"_You guys tossed me away like it was fucking nothing_."

Roman scratched at his goatee and dropped his head back against the top of the seat.

He looked over at Seth again.

It was easy to want to push Dean out because he'd turned into a complete asshole the last few months - getting full of himself and bragging how good he was, then turning into an excuse-making dick when he couldn't back it up, then going a little nuts trying to prove he wasn't the weak link everybody accused him of being. He'd been moody and erratic, driving both Roman and Seth completely nuts by running hot and cold for weeks at a time.

The more they tried to rope him in, the more they tried to prop him up and tell him they didn't buy into that weak link crap, the more he spun away.

He picked fights with Roman, snapped at Seth, and walked off to go sulk - and then had the stones to expect things to be normal (to get sex) when he got back.

Roman got a little tired of seeing how stressed out Seth got over that.

Dean always acted like he wasn't interested in anything but sex with them - shied away when Roman or Seth mentioned going out anywhere that wasn't a bar, got real weird about touching that wasn't about sex, and never seemed to be around during any of the conversations Seth and Roman had about maybe making this a more permanent thing - and for him to throw that shit in their faces last night was low.

Probably why Seth hadn't slept.

Thing was, Roman really liked Dean.

Despite all his bullshit lately, the guy was great in the ring whether he was wrestling or had a mic in hand, and he, unlike a lot of guys, he was willing to share what he knew and give pointers to try to help Roman improve. He was funny (often cracking jokes mid-argument or making up some bullshit story that left them rolling), could be a lot of fun to be around when he wasn't acting like a moody asshole, and, yeah, okay, he gave great head.

Before this weak link crap had started Dean on this stupid hot-and-cold kick, the three of them had a pretty fun thing going.

Roman thought maybe Dean would calm down (and knew Seth was hoping he would), but the longer this went on, and the closer Roman got to Seth, and the more he found himself hoping Seth would just decide enough was enough and cut the guy loose.

Maybe it wasn't fair, but he really thought - and he was pretty sure Seth thought - that this wasn't anything but casual sex to Dean, even if it had been going on for two-plus years.

For him to throw that '_of course it mattered'_ crap in their faces last night after he stood there and said it didn't, man, talk about a low blow.

Add that to the crap with Regal, and it was just - bad as it sounded, Roman felt like shaking Seth and saying, 'He's gone, dude. Let him go. We're better off.'

Seth wouldn't do it, though.

He couldn't let go the first time Dean stuck in Regal's orbit.

Too much history, too deep a friendship, too...something.

Just something with those two, and Roman didn't have a clue what he was going to do to help, how he was going to protect those two idiots from themselves - _and_ keep everybody safe from the damn Wyatts.

_Some damn powerhouse I am_, he thought glumly, looking over at Seth again.

Seth pulled his arms more tightly around himself.

Roman sighed.

xXx

_Late October, 2011_

_Dean Ambrose was the most obnoxious asshole Roman ever met._

_But he had a weird kind of charm to him that made him hard to really _dislike _him._

_Roman had never seen anybody take so much _joy _in being an asshole, and even if Roman felt like punching him in the mouth, once in a while he caught himself laughing quietly at the guy's antics - some funny thing he slipped into the middle of a promo, some goofy face he made in the middle of a match, some weird movement in the ring that looked stupidly uncoordinated but that confused his opponent enough for him to take advantage._

_As often as Roman rooted for Ambrose to get his ass kicked, there was something a little satisfying seeing the guy's crazy act pay off._

_Roman avoided him, mostly, but that was pretty easy since the only two guys Ambrose seemed to see were William Regal and Seth Rollins._

_One afternoon, though, not long after Ambrose's first match with Regal, Ambrose was, for whatever reason, hanging around the training ring where Roman - still going by Leakee then - was working a practice match with another guy._

_Toward the end of the practice session, the other guy (some local who was only at FCW for a minute) slipped and sliced his hand open bad enough he needed to go get it stitched up._

_As Roman was toweling off, he heard a quiet, "It's Leakee, right?"_

_Roman looked around. Saw Ambrose standing with a foot up on the ring steps and both forearms on his thigh. He was wearing old jeans with holes in the knees, wash-faded black tee shirt, and hiking boots that looked like they'd seen better days_

"_Yeah," Roman finally said. "Ambrose, isn't it?"_

_A cocky smile, glittering eyes, and, "Like you don't know."_

_Roman rolled his eyes and armed sweat off his face. "What do you want?"_

"_You ever think about adding a spear to your moveset?" Ambrose asked._

"_No," Roman said. "Why?"_

"_You should," Ambrose said, frowning down at this boot. "You're a football guy, right? A spear's just a running tackle. For somebody your build, it's a good move. Be a good finisher - better 'n that spinny bulldog shit you're doing now." He straightened and glanced off at the door. "Think about it."_

_Before Roman could even ask what Ambrose was talking about, the guy swaggered away to go harass Seth Rollins, who'd just walked in with his ring gear on._

_Roman didn't change his finisher, of course, not then._

_He liked the Checkmate because it was unique - a move nobody else had - and because, hell, anybody could do a spear._

_Who the hell did Dean Ambrose think he was, anyway?_

xXx

_I want my rabbit_, Abigail muttered churlishly.

"Now, don't take on so, little darlin," Bray murmured to her. "Soon enough."

Taking no notice of the early Wednesday morning cold, he picked his way through the icy slush and made his way to the back of the old truck, where his boys stood patiently waiting.

Bray handed Luke the keys. "Watch over the flock. Plan on seeing me Friday. If anything changes, I'll get word to you."

Luke, icicles in his beard and red-cheeked from the biting wind, hesitated. "You sure about this, Bray? We could come with you. Or one of us could. Should."

"I'll be fine," Bray said. "I need you both to go back to the home place and be with the family. The snake is no danger to me."

Erick and Luke both looked down toward Bray's neck - toward the cuts, Bray was sure - but neither of them said a word about that. Instead, Erick, face for once not hidden behind his mask, said, "Why are you botherin' with Regal? You know he's gonna want to get at you for blamin' him for all this. Why don't we just go get Ambrose?"

"We can't touch Ambrose until after Monday," Bray replied implacably. He held up the old phone the company required them to carry. "Their daddy called me while y'all were fueling up earlier. Apparently the little skunk and the big ox ran to him cryin' the blues about how we've been troublin' them. Their daddy threatened to put a hurt on us if we don't behave until Monday. He actually pulled them from the road this weekend."

Luke and Erick exchanged uneasy looks. "They told?"

"Just that we gave them trouble - not what we did." Bray was sure they'd have had more trouble on their hands if Reigns or Rollins had told Hunter just exactly what happened. "I'm sure they're off lickin' their wounds. We'll leave 'em to it. Let them plot their war. It'll make it that much sweeter when we beat them down Monday and take the rabbit."

"But Regal?" Erick prompted.

"We're going to have a nice chat," Bray said, "about how it's an abomination against nature for toothless old snakes and rabbits to lie together, and how such a thing could lead to even worse consequences for the other animals around them. I doubt Regal actually cares about what happens to Reigns or Rollins - he wouldn't have offered them up to us if he did - but I'm sure he knows Ambrose does, and I'm sure he knows Ambrose is going to be mighty upset to find out it was Regal who put us up to hurting them in the first place."

His boys exchanged that look again, a little frown like they weren't quite certain they'd heard right. It was Luke who said, "Will he believe you, Bray?"

"It was Regal who put us up to it, boys," Bray said. "Remember that. _Believe_ that, as those Shield boys would say. He said it himself - he didn't care what happened to them. You heard him. So it was Regal's fault they were hurt. I might've changed the story a bit, but the _truth_ of the matter was, it was Regal's doing."

Erick shifted, brushed the snow off his overalls, off the top of his head. His ears and cheeks were wind-bitten red. "I believe that," he said. "I heard you. He _said_ he didn't care. If he'd said not to, we wouldn't have."

"That's right," Bray said. "He told us to."

Luke, though, ever the Doubting Thomas, frowned over. "But how are you going to convince Ambrose?"

Bray reached up to clap Luke's damp, flannel-covered shoulder. "I'm not," he said, smiling again. "Regal is. He's going to pay for what he did to the rabbit's little friends. Bad men always do. You'll see. Bad men always pay."

_Bad man,_ Abigail said uneasily.

(_You failed her_.)

Not this time.

Bray shook the snow off his hat and turned away.

_Bad men always pay, Abigail_.

Abigail said nothing.

xXx

_Early November 2012, I_

"_I'm telling you, Roman," Paul Heyman said, voice high and reedy over the phone. "May I call you Roman, by the way?"_

_Roman kicked his feet up on his rickety-ass coffee table and smiled. "Sure."_

"_Great," Heyman said. "I'm telling you, there's a lot of injustice right now in the WWE. Have you seen what they've done to my client, CM Punk, lately? The kinds of matches they've made him work? What he's having to put himself through night after night to keep his championship?" The man sighed dramatically. The sound reminded Roman weirdly of bagpipes. "Or you, for example, who are an obvious star in the making, being kept down at NXT for no good reason. It's a travesty!"_

"_Uh. Right," Roman said. "A real travesty."_

"_Exactly!" Heyman exclaimed, sounding excited. "It's an injustice! Something has to be done."  
_

_"Uh-huh."_

_"I have an idea Call it a proposition. I want to hire three of you from NXT - as a sort of security force. Not just for me - for the entire roster. You'll right all the wrongs that the McMahon and Helmlesys are perpetrating all over the WWE. In the process, you'll get yourself out of NXT and onto the main roster."_

_Roman frowned over at his sagging bookshelf, thinking. "I'm listening."_

"_You're the powerhouse. The enforcer. The intimidation."_

"_Okay."_

"_Seth Rollins would be the brains of your group," Heyman went on. "He's a very shrewd ring general, and I think a good fit to plan things for you. You've worked with him before, haven't you?"_

"_I've had a few matches against him," Roman said. "Sharp guy. I like him."_

_Not just words, either; he and Seth hadn't talked much beyond occasionally congratulating each other on a job well done (really well done in Seth's case - he was already a multiple-time champion), but the guy's energy and his smile always seemed to lighten the mood anywhere he went.  
_

_(_His smile, what the hell? _When the hell had he noticed the dude's smile?)_

"_Oh, good, good," Heyman said. "The other I have in mind is Dean Ambrose. I know he's got a wild streak, but he'll be a terrific spokesman. That, and I've heard a rumor that he and Mr. Rollins are, uh, close, so I think Mr. Rollins will be able to keep him in check and focused on the task at hand."  
_

_There was some kind of innuendo behind that 'close', Roman was sure, but it flew right over his head._

_He didn't pay attention to backstage crap._

_So Rollins and Ambrose were friendly. Who cared? _

_Roman had seen stranger alliances during his time at FCW.  
_

"_That's fine," he finally said. "I can handle it. I really just want a chance to get my foot in the door."_

"_So do they," Heyman said. "They both said that exact thing when I talked to them. I think you three will work just fine together. But I want to meet with you first, so can you be in Orlando, in, say, a week? I'll have Ambrose and Rollins meet us down there. We'll talk."_

"_Um." Roman rolled to his feet and walked into his apartments tiny kitchen. He'd hung an ACC football calendar up, and right now - early November - it was on Wake Forest. He squinted at the dates he had penciled in. "Yeah, I gotta work shows next Friday and Saturday nights. Other than that, I'm good."_

"_Let's do next Wednesday," Heyman said. "I'll make the arrangements and let you know where you'll be staying."_

_Roman grabbed a pen and wrote it in. "Sounds good."_

_Getting his foot in the door, taking that last step to following in his old man's footsteps, maybe righting some wrongs in the WWE, walking in and taking the company by storm - yeah. If this was his way in, he was gonna take it, hell or high water._

_Who cared if it meant working for Paul Heyman?_

"_Great, glad to hear that," Heyman said. "I do have a suggestion for you, though, Roman, while I'm thinking about it. I've seen your Checkmate finisher, and it's _brilliant_, but I think you need something more impactful. Something more immediate for a finisher."_

"_More immediate?" Roman said dubiously, frowning at the calendar. "I'm not following."_

"_You're a big, powerful wrestler, and you're going to go far, but you need a big _wow _move."_

"_A - what, like a spear or something?" Roman asked, throwing out the first move he could think of._

"_Ooh," Heyman said, a grin in his voice. "Yes, that's very good. Explosive, powerful, perfect - and a Roman warrior with a spear. That's good. That's very good. I like that. Do you do a spear, Roman?"_

"_I know how, yeah," Roman admitted. "I might've been working on it a little here and there."_

_Not because of anybody's suggestion, of course, but because it was a good, basic move to have in his utility belt._

"_Oh, reeeeally?" Heyman said. "Work on it more. Make it perfect. A move like that could make you a star down the road."_

"_All right," Roman said, nodding. "I'll do that."_

_Slimeball or not, Heyman knew what he was talking about - had to, because if a guy like CM Punk trusted him, well, that had to count for something. Guy had made a lot of stars in his day, so odds were good he wasn't blowing smoke up Roman's butt._

"_Good, good," he said. "I'll be in touch with the details about next Wednesday. I'm looking forward to working with you."_

"_You too," Roman said. "Thanks for the opportunity. And the advice."_

"_Oh, you're most welcome, Roman. Work on that spear."_

_After Roman hung up, he set the phone down on table and pumped his fist._

_He was on his way._

_But he swore to God if Ambrose ever said 'I told you so' about the spear, he'd - well, he'd spear the guy in half._

xXx

Wednesday passed like nothing.

A sleepless and crammed-in flight to Florida (Regal up in first class, and Dean stuck in the last available seat in coach), a near-wordless lunch at some Tampa restaurant Regal liked, and Dean collapsing in Regal's small, uncluttered spare bedroom - nothing in it but a bed and a dresser, like a stripped down hotel room, not even pictures, just bare pale walls, one window, bland carpet, dark blue bedding - sometime early afternoon and immediately crashing.

He drifted awake sometime before noon Thursday with the late morning sun filtering in through the curtains, threatening to sizzle his eyeballs.

After a quick pitstop to the bathroom, he padded over to the dresser and unplugged his phone from the charger. Saw a text from Seth: "Pulled from shows this wknd. Hunter wants no contact w/Wyatts. Call me."

Yawning, Dean flopped back down on top of the covers, threw an arm over his eyes, and he hit 'redial.'

Seth picked up after the first ring. "Hey!" Bright and cheerful, much more Seth-like than the zombie Dean remembered leaving Regal's hotel room. "Whatcha up to?"

"Just woke up," Dean admitted, clearing his throat to work the sleep out of his voice.

"Yeah, us too," Seth replied, and then Dean heard him say, "It's Dean," and heard Roman reply, gruffly, "Put him on speaker."

"You're on speaker, Dean," Seth said a second later. "Rome's here. We're chillin at my place."

"Oh, hey," Dean said. "Guy doin' okay?"

"Yup," Seth said, and Roman followed it with, "We're hangin' in there, man."

Dean had the sudden mental image of the two of them all tangled up together on Seth's ugly brown couch - the one he'd have had to sleep on if he'd gone up there. Made his stomach twist, so he pushed it out of his head. "'S good," he said. "Glad to hear it. Sleepin' okay? Bad dreams or anything?"

"A little, but not too bad," Seth said. "Getting better. You?"

"Same. I totally just slept like eighteen hours. Fucking _awesome_."

"Lazy ass," Roman said.

"My middle names," Dean said agreeably. "So no shows this weekend?"

"Yeah," Seth said. "Hunter called yesterday morning to talk to us about running interference for Randy Orton next week, and, uh, we mentioned we'd had some issues with Wyatt outside the ring-"

Dean sat partway up. "You fucking _told_ him?"

"Not specifically what happened," Seth said quickly. "Chill, man. We just - we told him we'd had some problems with the Wyatts coming at us. That's literally all we said. Hunter told us to stay home this week and keep our heads down - didn't wanna take any chances on any of us starting shit before Monday."

Made sense, Dean guessed, but it seemed like kind of a pussy way to go - like they were hiding behind Triple H and Stephanie.

Stubble sighed against his palm when he scrubbed his hand over his cheek.

He'd kinda been hoping he'd have a chance to take a run at Wyatt this weekend.

But, wanting to avoid another fight, he worked something reasonable into his voice and said, "That's probably a good idea. He gonna talk to Wyatt, then?"

"Don't know," Seth said. "Didn't ask. Don't care."

"Cool."

"So, hey, you alone?" Seth asked.

"Yep." Far as he knew or was going to bother finding out, anyway; he doubted like hell Regal was hovering on the other side of the door with an ear to the keyhole. "Why?"

It was Roman who said, all quiet and frowning-voiced, "Because we wanna hash our shit out."

"Oh, come on, I just woke up," Dean complained. He sat up, though, and leaned back against the headboard, head tipped against the wall behind it, short-clad legs stretched out ahead of him. "We really gotta do this now?"

There was a shifting noise on the other end of the line like maybe Seth and Roman were moving, too. Settling in. Getting comfortable.

_Choosing our positions_.

And Seth said, simply, "Yeah."

"Fine," Dean said through a sigh. "Talk."

"No," Roman said. "Bro, it's you who needs to talk to us. Why did you say you were cool with just Seth and I being together if you're really not? You said you saw it coming, and you said you weren't into the whole hearts and flowers thing, you said 'no big deal, I can fill my bed anytime.' But now you're acting all mad, like we did something wrong. If we got an issue here, let's get it out in the open and deal with it."

"If we got an _issue_?" Dean said incredulously.

"Yeah," Seth said, like he thought Dean was asking a question. "Look, you can't - it's not fair for you to say one thing and turn around and act a different way. So whatever's on your mind, man, just speak up. We're not gonna be able to solve anything if-"

"Would you two fucking _stop_ with this fucking _After School Special _shit?" Dean suddenly snapped, his vehemence surprising even him. But, fuck, it was like they were parents talking to an unruly teenager or something. "Am I mad? Yeah. 'Thanks for the blowjobs, but fuck off now 'cuz we wanna play house'? Really? Like, what, you think all I've been sticking around for the last two-plus years is the _dick_? Come on."

Caught-breath pause like it hit them funny, but it was the truth, wasn't it?

Seth finally ventured, "You said you weren't into-"

"The hearts and flowers shit, yeah," Dean finished for him. Calmly, for all that he was flicking his fingernails against his thumb again, one by one, index to pinky and back. "I'm not, but that's not the same thing as not wanting to stick around."

A thousand miles away, Seth cleared his throat. Rasped, "You never said that."

"No," Dean admitted, "but you didn't say anything, either, and you never asked. Guys always seemed to wait until I wasn't around to talk about that shit."

He brought his fist up to his mouth, blew on it quietly, and flicked all his fingers open.

"Because we didn't think you wanted to," Seth said.

"You never _did_ want to," Roman added.

"How do you know?" Dean asked. At the sound of a quiet tap on the door, he rolled out of the bed and padded over to answer it. Regal, of course, standing on the other side of the door in a black WWE-logoed short-sleeved polo shirt and black slacks. "You never tried." Dean motioned him in and headed back to the bed. Somehow or other, he managed to get the phone on speaker, and dropped it onto his chest. "You'd tell me you wanted alone time, so I'd go, and you'd get all fuckin' lovey-dovey with each other and you'd never say a fuckin' thing to me when I got back."

Regal wandered in and leaned back against the dresser, a quizzical look on his face.

Dean shrugged a shoulder as he stretched all the way back out.

No reason Regal needed to hear this, but no reason he shouldn't, either; he'd leave it up to the old guy to stay and listen or go.

"Well, you know, you haven't been making it all that easy to be around you lately," Roman said. "The way you've been acting, and all these fights you've been picking with me-"

"You've been pickin' 'em with me, too, Rome," Dean said over him.

Because of course he'd go there.

"Cut it out," Seth cut in. "I'm sick to death of you two always arguing. I don't care who starts it. You both need to stop it." He pulled in an audible breath. "What was stopping you from saying something, Dean?"

"I didn't know I needed to," Dean said, chewing on a nail. "Didn't think - didn't know, I guess - you guys were gonna get _that_ serious about it. Seemed like we were keeping it pretty casual when it was the three of us. But I didn't know what you two were up to, so - how the hell would I know?"

"Because when something matters, you say so, bro," Roman said. "Doesn't matter what the situation is."

"You guys never said anything," Dean pointed out.

Lamely, though, because there wasn't a whole lot he could say to argue that point.

"Yeah, I know," Seth said tiredly, "and I'm sorry, but, dude, I didn't think you wanted us to - especially lately. You haven't wanted to hang out or even talk to us or anything. All you've done is act all pissy because you're on a bad streak and then come back for sex. You can't seriously act that way and expect us to think you're in it for more than that - especially when you keep saying you're not into the hearts and flowers thing. And, yeah, I know - two and a half years. I get that, but you have to look at it from where we're standing. The last six months, man. What are we supposed to think?"

A hard pit settled in Dean's stomach, and he closed his eyes.

It all ran through his mind, clear as day - images flashing past like a fast-motion flip-book:

Getting tired of hearing all the whispers and grumblings and rumblings - _Roman's the best, Rollins amazing, weak-link Ambrose_ - and needing to get away.

("_Why didn't you stick to the damn game plan, Ambrose? You should have tagged out. We should have won._")

Coming back to the hotel rooms in a frustrated knot afterward and seeing those two so wrapped up in each other he didn't know where one stopped and the other started.

Standing there feeling awkward and out of place, wanting something from them but not knowing how to ask for anything except a fuck.

Knowing Seth wanted something else from him besides a good blowjob, but not knowing what the fuck to give him or how to even ask Seth to tell him.

Like he was supposed to know how this shit worked?

Losing.

And losing.

And losing.

_Are you the weak link?_

Seth and Roman winning.

And winning.

And winning.

_Are you the weak link?_

How the hell had things spun so far away so fast?

_We can't fix this_.

"You still there, Dean?" Seth. Tentative.

"Yeah."

"Then say something."

"Something."

A snort. "Asshole."

"You know it."

"'Course I do."

"...yeah."

"For real, though, man," Seth said, "you okay? You just - you got real quiet."

"Yeah." For a man sitting in the middle of bomb-wreckage inside his own head. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking it's lunchtime and I haven't eaten since yesterday at lunch," Dean said. "And I guess I'm thinking we just - we leave it how it is. You guys do your thing. I'll do mine. Team stays the team. I'll try not to be such an asshole if you guys get off my back about where I go after the shows. That work?"

Like being stuck in an endless NASCAR race, going round and round just to end up at the same fucking place, but, shit, where else _could_ they end up?

They weren't gonna ask him to come back and he wasn't going to beg - he wasn't his fucking mother - and they'd all fucked it up (especially him, which was nothing new), and what was there left to do but fucking let it go?

Move on.

There was some conversation on the other end of the line, too quiet for him to overhear.

He opened his eyes, finally, and looked across the room.

Regal was in exactly the same place Dean had last seen him, leaning back against the dresser, watching - no sympathy or anything like that in his eyes, just a vague frown and something kind of thoughtful in the way he was staring at the phone on Dean's chest.

Dean didn't even want to know.

Finally, Roman said, "We're not gonna get off your back when you're doing stuff we don't like."

"Like Regal?" Dean said. Then lifted a hand and twisted his hand in a 'reverse that' gesture "Well, other way around, he does me, but-"

"_What_?"

"Nothing," Dean said, all mock-innocence. Regal covered his mouth with a hand, shoulders shaking. "I know you don't like me being around him. I heard you the first thousand times and I still don't care."

"Dean-"

"Look, you guys dislike it all you want. Right now I'm fucking starving and I wanna get laid, so I'm gonna go do that. Maybe at the same time, I don't know. But, look, sorry if I've been a dick. We're cool as far as I'm concerned. So just - yeah, text me or whatever when you're ready to talk Wyatts, all right?"

He hung up without waiting for an answer - _like a dick_ - and tossed his phone off him. Sighing, he dropped his head back and flung an arm over his eyes. "You know, I'd almost rather get kicked in the nuts than sit through conversations like that."

Felt like he'd been squeezed through a meat grinder or something.

Fucking exhausted all over again.

Regal said, "Painful, either way. Been through a few of those myself. Never gets easier."

"Sucks," Dean muttered. "What're you up to, anyway?"

"Seeing if you were still breathing. Quiet as you've been since you got here, I wondered."

"Mm." Dean lowered his arm and pushed himself up sitting. "Yeah, I was more tired 'n I thought, I guess. Slept like the dead. I just woke up right before I called those two. Guess I should, uh..." He gestured vaguely toward the bathroom. "Get cleaned up."

Regal's eyes narrowed. "You _could_," he said. "Then again, you could wait a bit."

Dean frowned over at him. "Why?"

A sly smile as Regal pushed away from the dresser. "So I can get you a bit dirtier first."

"...oh." Dean grinned himself and leaned back on his elbows. "Yeah, that - that could be a thing. Why don'tcha do that?"

Good way to shut the brain off for a while.

After all this crap, he needed that more than anything.

Regal toed his shoes off and knee-walked onto the bed until he was straddling Dean's hips. His fingertips found Dean's collarbones.

"I believe I will," he said.

xXx

_Early November 2012, II_

"_Got a great ass, doesn't he?" _

_The question drifted over from somewhere behind him, and Roman started, yanking his attention away from where he _was definitely not _staring at Seth Rollins' ass and turning to glare at Ambrose. "What?"_

_Ambrose dropped down from the pull up bar and nodded over at Seth. "His ass. You could bounce, like, well, anything off that sucker. Great, isn't it?"_

_Roman set the dumbbell he'd been using for bicep curls down. "I don't know what you're talking about, man. I was just, uh, watching. In case he needed help. You know."_

_Rollins had been doing squats with about two hundred pounds on his weight bar, the muscles in his legs and thighs flexing and contracting in a way that was weirdly hypnotic._

(Hell's the matter with you, man?)

_Ambrose draped his tee shirt around his shoulders like a towel, shook his hair out of his eyes, and sat down on the bench next to Roman. "I could watch this all day."_

_Roman shifted away, frowning. "I wasn't watc-"_

"_You totally were," Ambrose said, cheek dimpling with his grin. "It's okay, dude. I don't mind. Just, like, quit being so obvious about it."_

"_You - what?" Roman side-eyed him. "The hell are you talking about?"_

"_Oh, come on, Roman," Ambrose said, nudging Roman's knee with his own. "You know. Everybody knows. Me and Seth are, like, a thing. Mean, I don't _mind _if you watch, but damn, dude, put your tongue back in your mouth, wouldya?"_

"_A-? Like…?"_

"_Like I'm hitting that." Ambrose's forehead wrinkled. "You seriously didn't know? How do you not know? Everybody knows."_

_Roman snagged a towel and wiped the sweat off his face. "I don't pay attention to backstage gossip, Ambrose."_

_That actually seemed to throw the guy, because he leaned back and his eyes narrowed like he was trying to figure something out. Then he shrugged and whipped his shirt from around his shoulders. "Well, whatever. Yeah. So, we're a thing."_

_Once again, Roman found himself looking at Seth. Seeing him with new eyes, he guessed. The sweat-slick curve of his back, the muscles in his arms - dude was lean, but jacked as hell. Not an ounce of extra anything anywhere._

_Looked like the type of dude who could go._

_Plus, he was a nice guy on top of that, so-_

Wait, what? The hell…?

_He made himself look away, but that didn't help because Ambrose's grin was just knowing as hell. "So what," Roman said gruffly, scratching the back of his neck to give himself an excuse to look anywhere else, "you guys gay?"_

"_Us? No. Jesus." Ambrose laughed. "Bi, probably. We've both wrecked our fair share of pussy in our day."_

_Roman wrinkled his nose. "Classy."_

_Ambrose sucked his thumbnail and shrugged again. "You got 'pussy wrecker' written all over you, too, but the way you're eyeing Seth there, I'm guessing you swing both ways." When Roman didn't answer, Ambrose just smiled.  
_

_Guy had dimples for damn _weeks_, and Roman felt like punching him because since _when _did he ever notice a dude's dimples?_

_Or Seth's eyes, for that matter?_

_Or - hell_.

"_Guess we all got that in common, then," Ambrose said, bouncing to his feet. "That's cool, man. Nothing wrong with it. Three of us, I think we got a lot in common. Gonna be kickin' in some doors and shit soon."_

_Roman nodded. "Yeah, man. For sure."_

_Ambrose gave him one of those long, assessing looks again. "You don't talk much, do you?"_

"_No."_

"_That's cool," Ambrose said, clapping Roman's tattooed shoulder. "Big enforcer type, you don't gotta say much. And Seth says I talk too much, anyway, so…"_

"_Wouldn't have guessed," Roman said dryly._

_Which earned him another grin. "This is gonna be fun."_

_Roman, eyes straying over to Seth one more time, said, "Be interesting, that's for sure."_

_For damn sure._

xXx

Over lunch, they debated wrestling, Regal striving to keep things easy and light, and Ambrose apparently determined not to fall into the bad mood he'd been close to after his conversation with his mates.

Not that Regal would have blamed him wanting a good wallow in self-pity after that nonsense.

To his credit, though, Ambrose hadn't lost his head about any of it, not even when his mates more or less pinned the whole mess on him; he'd looked, more than anything, just resigned about the whole thing and quite ready to have done with it.

And Regal was honestly glad he'd chosen to forgo the wallow because it had meant a very good shag and relatively companionable conversation afterward.

Although, there was something just a bit off in the way Ambrose wouldn't quite make eye contact and the two or three times he'd turned to stare out the window their waitress had had them next to during the handful of silences that fell, but Regal left him alone about it.

They debated which wrestling era was best, which led to a rather spirited discussion about Regal's English style wrestling versus the faster-paced modern American style, which led to Regal recounting a couple of anecdotes from his days working the Pleasure Beach, which led to Ambrose recounting a horrifying episode where he'd nearly seen a man bleed to death during a so-called deathmatch.

"That's why I was so primed to go after Foley," Ambrose said. "I know it's not his fault, like, directly, and, yeah, nobody put a gun to my head and made me wrestle in barbed wire and broken glass, but if you think about it, people only want to see that shit 'cuz they saw guys like Foley doin' it first on TV."

"Very true," Regal said. A little over an hour ago, he'd been running absent fingers over a couple of old barbed wire scars on Ambrose's back, thinking something along those very lines. "He's a good man, Mick, but he never quite understood what sort of legacy he'd be leaving behind."

"Nope."

"Are you still bitter you didn't get to wrestle him?"

Ambrose shook his head. "Not really. Dude can barely walk. Nothing I can do to him his body isn't already doing. Mean, he's gotta live with the consequences, and that's good enough."

"Fair enough," Regal said. He set his fork down, wiped his mouth on his napkin, and pushed his plate away. "D'you ever miss it? The death matches?"

"Nope." Ambrose's smile was easy, untroubled. He pushed his own plate away and scratched absently at his collar. He was actually wearing something that wasn't a tee shirt for a change - a blue button-up that, other than needing a good ironing, looked quite nice on him - with his jeans; the only unfortunate thing was that he'd left the top two buttons undone, so the new lovebites Regal had left in place of the faded old ones were quite visible.

Of course, knowing Ambrose, he didn't care.

Seemed to be the sort who'd display his lovebites without a second thought and who'd just shrug at anyone who looked twice.

_Yeah, I got laid. Got a problem with that?_

"I miss the adrenaline rush sometimes," he suddenly went on. "But you know the whole waking up your shirt stuck to you and your bed lookin' like a crime scene? That kinda sucks."

"That it does," Regal said. "I've done that a time or two myself. Unpleasant."

"Yeah." Ambrose reached for his beer. "Speaking of shit that sucks…"

"Yes?"

"You decide what I'm gonna have to do for the bet?"

"Yes."

Ambrose's eyebrows climbed. "You gonna tell me?"

"No."

"Gimme a hint."

"No."

"Come on."

"No."

"At least tell me when."

Regal leaned forward on his elbows. "No."

"You're killin me."

"I know." Regal propped his chin in his palm and smiled. "That's the fun, isn't it? Keeping you in the dark - not knowing what or when or where, only knowing it's coming. Oh, the possibilities. What _will_ I do to you, my dear boy?"

Once again, there was an odd moment where Ambrose's eyes appeared to cloud over - _oh, you _really _like that, don't you?_ - and it took him a second to shake himself out of it.

This was going to be fun.

"I will tell you this," Regal said then, "it won't be tonight. I've got NXT tapings this evening. Care to join me? You can watch from backstage if you like."

Ambrose polished off his beer. "Yeah, why not? Been a really long time since I've gone to a wrestling show just to watch wrestling. Good change of pace."

"Should be, yes," Regal said agreeably. "I don't have to be there until around half-five, so you can do your washing or run whatever errands you need to until then."

"Oh joy," Ambrose muttered. "Yeah, I better. Probably don't want me runnin' around in shirts that haven't been washed in like a week."

"I'd prefer it if you didn't."

The server - a pretty young thing with curly blond hair and striking green eyes - came by and gathered up their plates. She quite earned her tip when, after Regal and Ambrose both declined another drink and dessert, she had the bill ready.

Regal took it from her and reached for his wallet. "I'll get this," he told Ambrose, who'd reached for his own wallet. "You pick up the next one."

Seemed the least-awkward and least date-like way of going about it, and, judging by the way his face relaxed as he nodded, Ambrose agreed.

Interesting, that.

Back at Regal's, they both took care of a few mundane things as the sky grew cloud-thick and threatened rain outside. The clouds finally broke open toward the middle of the afternoon, right about the second time that day Regal found himself hovering over a very naked and quite amiable Ambrose - elbows and knees this time, though, and Ambrose with his forehead down on his forearms, mumbling at Regal to "hurry up already, Jesus, old man, you forget what you're doin' back there?"

He went completely still when Regal slapped him sharply on the backside, the close-thunder snap echoing off his bedroom's walls and hovering in the air.

Regal, naked himself and on his haunches, held still in the slightly breathless silence that followed, watching a hand-shaped red mark rise, and waiting to see what would happen.

The little gold hoop in Ambrose's ear flashed in the pale light when he lifted his head and looked around. Hint of a challenge in the lift of his eyebrows, but nothing terribly readable in eyes that had gone quite dark. "That all ya got, old man?"

"No," Regal said, lifting his hand again. "Not even close."

In retrospect, it wasn't the best idea he had, going that hard, because by the time they were finished, he felt quite glutted, lazy and content and quite ready to sleep the remains of the day away.

Ambrose lay on his stomach beside him, backside blistered red, face calm and expression, for a change, quite peaceful.

(That was interesting, too, wasn't it?

Nothing terribly complicated in it, really - chaos craving a bit of order, order craving a bit of chaos - but it still said something about them both.)

Felt a bit they'd fallen into their own little momentary bubble, where the day's earlier nonsense with Ambrose's mates and the distant threat of Wyatts either stopped existing or just didn't matter anymore.

Wouldn't last, of course, but he closed his eyes and let himself enjoy it while he could.

xXx

_December 2012_

_Seth didn't have a concussion._

_That was the big thing._

_Ryback had thrown his ass off that big ladder and Seth had landed all sorts of awkward on the table, but the guy proved he had more lives than a cat, and Roman breathed a little easy when the backstage medic declared Seth clear to go for the night._

_That had been a scary-ass fall._

_Roman's heart might have actually stopped._

_But it started up again and kept going, and now they were in their locker room, changing out of their battle gear and getting ready to head back to the hotel._

_Bumps and bruises aside, he felt good - _damn _good._

_First WWE match, and they'd won._

_They'd gotten the match on their own and had broken free of Heyman's grasp, and now the sky was the damn limit._

_Door kicked _open_._

"_-that shit, man," Dean was saying, twisting around to show Seth the big red mark on his back and side where Kane had chokeslammed him on the chair. He tossed his shirt aside. "Coulda broke a rib."_

_Seth lifted up his own shirt and pointed to a red mark on his chest. "Yeah? That was a ladder."_

"_Oh, shit," Dean said, bending down to look. "You got letters."_

"_Nice!" Seth said, craning down - carefully, though, because his neck. "Yeah. LS. That's cool. Must've been stamped on the top of the ladder."_

_Their eyes caught and Dean suddenly surged up and kissed him, quick and fast, and Roman, who'd been bent over his bag, digging out his street clothes, looked away._

_Not the first time they'd kissed in front of him, but it always felt a little weird._

_Like he was intruding on something._

_When he looked up again, phone in hand, Dean was standing behind Seth, chin on Seth's shoulder, and the two of them were turned Roman's way, looking like some weird sort of two-headed monster._

_Dark eyes and blue ones found his._

"_So Rome," Dean said, mouth twitching, "you ever thought about a threesome?"_

_Roman dropped his phone. "Uh. Not - uh, not with two guys."_

"_You should," Dean said. "Call it a hunch, but I bet you got a _great _spear."_

_Roman put his head down and laughed and laughed and laughed._

xXx

The taping went well enough, although Regal had to work twice as hard to bring half the enthusiasm to commentary he normally did.

No one called him on it, though he did make a mental note about getting back down here sometime this week to re-record bit of what he'd said so it didn't sound quite so flat.

There'd actually been several good matches (and, in fact, he was quite looking forward to getting Ambrose's opinion on them); he'd just worn himself out a bit too much earlier.

_Old man, indeed_, he thought, shaking his head as he waved goodbye to everyone at the announce desk - Sami Zayn had popped by to chat up Renee Young - and wandered off in search of his house guest.

Said house guest had - typically enough - not wanted to hang about backstage, so he'd elected to watch the show from Regal's cramped office, all the way in the back of the building.

Regal passed through the backstage area, waving at the handful of lads and lasses still milling around chatting, but didn't stop himself.

He left the backstage area and-

Froze.

Standing at the exit to Regal's right, hat and beard and blue flower-print shirt dripping fresh rain onto the tiles, was Bray Wyatt.

Wyatt looked up slowly, burning bright eyes traveling up until they settled on Regal's like a physical weight.

Regal could see Wyatt smiling, even through the layers of beard.

"Evening, Regal," Wyatt said quietly. "We need to talk."

xXx

A/N: You'll have to forgive me - I'm not a particularly fast writer. Most of these scenes go through something like eight or ten iterations before I'm happy with their tone and pacing, so it takes me a while. We're getting there, though. Thanks for reading!


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